《Doll in the Jewellery Box》


 1. Meeting by Chance

    Wednesday


    I struggle with my bags as I hold the theatre door open with my foot. It¡¯s heavy and worn, a sad reminder of past opulence. This theatre was once shiny and new, a place to be. Now the paint is peeling and thick fluffy cobwebs dangle from the severely unfashionable cornices.


    Casey and the rest of the cast bustle through, all giggles and laughter, interrupting my melancholy train of thought. Ollie, still stuffing his face from a take-out box, clumsily spills some rice at my feet. It¡¯s the last week before opening night. Despite all the surface-level cheer, the troupe¡¯s collective nerves are frayed. There had nearly been a fight over where to get dinner.


    The group mills about in the foyer, joking and bickering, all reluctant to head back to the stage. I tap Casey on the arm.


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna head home now ¨C you guys don¡¯t need me for the rest of this.¡¯


    She nods and opens her mouth to speak ¨C Ollie interrupts.


    ¡®Hey! it¡¯s not fair you get to go home before us. You have to audition for the next one.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, right. The next one is a cheesy romance.'' I stick out my tongue, mock vomiting on the floor. ''What am I gonna play? The evil stepmother?¡¯


    ¡®Nah, you¡¯d be the princess!¡¯


    I almost choke on my laughter. If nothing else, Ollie is sweet.


    ¡®Seriously? You think I¡¯d be able to get through that kind of dialogue?¡¯


    Taking a moment to straighten my expression, I turn to a chipped and dusty plaster bust of Shakespeare settled in a nook in the wall. With a solemn look, I stretch out my hand to cup his cheek and say


    ¡®Oh, my love, how long must you deny your feelings? Your cold gaze wounds me. I know what lurks inside your heart.¡¯


    Hand to my chest, I swoon dramatically to my knees. I look up at the bust with teary eyes and say;


    ¡®If you do not kiss me now, I fear I shall die from the agony of this broken heart.¡¯


    I collapse to my side with a sad sigh, and the troupe bursts into raucous laughter, filling the space with a painful level of noise. I awkwardly lift myself back up off the tired carpet, feeling part of it lift up with me.


    ¡®Ugh, gross.¡¯


    I stand, pointing back to the floor.


    ¡®Don¡¯t lie down there. There¡¯s something really sticky.¡¯


    Casey throws her arm around me, still laughing.


    ¡®Go home, you idiot.¡¯


    I shrug and attempt to reply, but the side door opens and Director Hollis, looking very stressed, barks out;


    ¡®What are you doing? Get back in here. Now!¡¯


    Still laughing, the group jostles their way backstage, leaving me smiling to myself. I heft my bags and shoulder my way back out the front door into the cool night air. It¡¯s peaceful out here ¨C late enough for the traffic to have petered off to just the occasional car. I stand on the lowest step and take a few deep, calming breaths while my eyes adjust to the darkness. Once acclimatized, I turn left towards the bus stop.


    Behind me, the theatre door opens.


    ¡®Excuse me, you¡¯re not in this show?¡¯


    I turn back. A young man in a well-tailored suit stands in the doorway. I hadn''t noticed him in the foyer.


    ¡®No, I¡¯m not.¡¯


    I squint at him. His features are hard to make out with the light behind him. At least I can tell that I hate his haircut.


    ¡®And you''re not going to audition for the next one?¡¯


    ¡®¡­No?¡¯


    My bags begin to slip, so I rest them on the ground. A little wall of nonsense separating the two of us.


    ¡®Look, I have something that might be better than¡­¡¯ He inclines his head back toward the theatre.


    ¡®Are you a talent scout?¡¯


    ¡®Uh, no.¡¯


    ¡®But you¡¯re asking me to an audition?¡¯


    ¡®No, um. Consider that back there the audition. You turn up, you have the part.¡¯


    That¡¯s... not normal. I can¡¯t see his expression in the darkness, just that he''s fussing with something in his jacket pocket.


    ¡®Look¡­¡¯ He glances around, then points at a caf¨¦ across the street


    ¡®Come talk to me tomorrow, there, midday.¡¯


    I glance over at the dark windows. At least he¡¯s suggesting a public space? As I turn back, he thrusts a handful of paper into my hands, then disappears back into the theatre.


    I look down at what he¡¯s given me, and my eyes widen. It¡¯s money. Lots of money. I stuff it in a bag and glance about me frantically, hoping nobody saw what he gave me. I can¡¯t see anyone, but I rush to the bus stop anyway.


    What the hell was that?


    When the bus arrives, I¡¯m scrolling through search results, trying to work out who that guy was. I plonk myself down in the front seat and absently swipe my ticket. Looking for directors in town is impossible, there¡¯s no localised ''director directory''. I look for casting calls in the area, to see if there are any names attached. I know it''s probably not going to help. Casting calls tend to be vague at the best of times - they won''t give me the names of directors or investors. By the time I reach my stop, the man¡¯s features are fuzzy and indistinct in my memory.


    The house is silent when I get in. I close the front door quietly behind me and head to my room to dump my bags on the floor. I move some books so I can sit down in the cluttered space and start digging through everything until I find the money. I was too scared to count it in public. Now though...


    I hold in my hands two months¡¯ rent.


    He just casually handed me this much cash. Some random woman he¡¯d never met before. Like it was nothing. He didn¡¯t even give me his name! A business card! Anything! He had to have been some big-deal movie director, right?


    I glance around the room, then pull out my sewing box and hide the money down the side, under the lining. I¡¯m nervous about having this much cash on me. I can count on one hand the number of times I¡¯ve held that much physical money, and all of those times it wasn¡¯t even mine.


    The whole situation is ridiculous. It makes no sense. Two months¡¯ rent for swooning at a statue?


    I rub my face. It¡¯s nothing to sniff at. I struggled to make this month¡¯s rent at all, and haven¡¯t eaten much more than oats and water for the past week. There¡¯s no regular work around here for someone like me, and my set-building gig doesn¡¯t pay shit.


    Thursday


    Nobody is up when I wake for breakfast. To be expected ¨C most of my housemates are in the production with Casey, and they were out late. I shower as quietly as I can. If someone were up I could borrow a job-interview outfit, but no such luck. I shuffle around my room looking for something vaguely respectable. I only have a few ''office casual'' blouses, most of which I haven¡¯t worn since high school¡­ Turns out I¡¯m fatter than I was back then. They don''t fit.


    I check my phone for the time ¨C later than I¡¯d hoped. I check the common areas again; still nobody up. There¡¯s no other option. I take down the garment bag on the back of my door ¨C it¡¯s the only outfit I have that might work. I pull out the very expensive blue floral dress and hold it up to the light ¨C it¡¯s not too creased. My parents bought it for me to wear to my sister¡¯s wedding. Came with shoes too. It¡¯s the most valuable thing I own. Fortunately, it still fits me.


    I rifle through my bag from yesterday and collect only the essentials, then jam them in my ¡®good¡¯ handbag. It¡¯s cute as heck, but way too small for everyday use. I prefer to be prepared for anything. Phone charger, spare battery, notepad, pens, tissues, a roll of tape, an emergency sewing kit, bandaids, a comb, hair pins... all the sorts of things you never have when you need them and never need when you have them. I make sure I always have them.


    Not today.


    I don''t like it.


    I had hoped to spend the day on something productive¡­ but I¡¯ve already wasted so much time looking for clothes to wear to a¡­ something. Something that isn''t likely to pay off.


    The guy is probably planning on kidnapping me. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m lucky enough to have just stumbled into a big-budget film role. I¡¯m not the right shape for adult films either. Unless it¡¯s some kind of gross fetish thing. I groan. I hunt around in the mess until I find a clean sheet of paper to write a note;


    Gone to job interview at BEANBOW CAF¨¦ 12pm. Have my phone. If not back by 5 & not answering phone, call police. Job seems shady. Guy had dark hair, clean shaven, about 6''6", was wearing tailored suit, met him at the EURIPIDES THEATRE last night.


    I tape the note to the outside of my door.


    It¡¯ll have to do.


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    As I head to the front door, my housemate Laurie shuffles past in his dressing gown, a bowl of cereal in his hands. He exaggeratedly looks me up and down.


    ¡®You¡¯re dressed all fancy.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, job interview.¡¯ I do a little twirl; ''Is this too much?''


    ¡®Too much for waitressing, perfect for office admin. Break a leg.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks. It¡¯s probably a scam.¡¯


    Laurie chuckles.


    ¡®Sounds like a great gig. Good luck, don¡¯t get scammed.¡¯


    I hurry out to the bus ¨C it¡¯s not too busy and I¡¯m glad to sit. I¡¯ve barely walked a block and these shoes are already making my feet hurt. This is why I never wear heels. I wonder if I¡¯ll need to lose this guy on my way home. I won''t be making a run for it on foot, that''s for sure.


    I could take the bus in the wrong direction - pass through the city - then take a different route home. It¡¯d be hard to tail me if I swap buses a couple of times.


    Of course, the guy still knows I spend time at the theatre. He''d be able to pick my trail back up if he really wanted.


    Stupid. Stupid, stupid.


    If I didn¡¯t desperately need the money for food and rent, I wouldn¡¯t be doing this.


    I get off the bus and curse myself the whole way to the caf¨¦. It¡¯s a nice-looking place. I haven¡¯t eaten there myself. According to a discarded menu, a single cup of coffee costs more than I spend on food in the average week, so I don''t know that I''d ever feel inclined to try it. Maybe this guy will buy me some overpriced food to go along with this interview... or whatever it is we''re doing. I know I''m being greedy.


    Glancing over the patrons outside, I don¡¯t see him. I try to surreptitiously peer through the window, and immediately change my opinion of the place ¨C it''s repellent. The inside is lit by bare incandescent globes ¨C not the sort you buy in the store. They¡¯re huge. The bulbs are probably hand-blown glass. They¡¯re dim and the filament inside each one looks far more complex than is necessary for any normal light. The furniture has that extremely expensive square brutalist/faux industrial style that seems so popular with wealthy arts students ¨C perfect d¨¦cor for a spot so close to the theatre. I hate it with every fibre of my being.


    I scan the patrons again. It¡¯s packed with people eating tiny sandwiches and dainty pastries. I don¡¯t see him. I check my phone. 11:58 am. I sigh.


    Midday means twelve exactly to me ¨C who knows what it means to movie directors and kidnappers. I assume it could be anything from 12:00 pm to 12:59, though I''m sure someone would argue that even 1:30 pm counts. I can¡¯t sit at the caf¨¦ ordering nothing for an hour, and I don¡¯t want to waste money on their wildly overpriced drinks.


    I look back through the window for a specials board ¨C it¡¯s easy enough to spot, dangling from artfully rusted chains above the polished concrete counter at the centre of the room. The cheapest item is a grilled cheese sandwich ¨C it costs as much as two and a half weeks'' worth of normal food. I can¡¯t justify it. I step back and look around.


    There¡¯s a park bench further down the street, but it¡¯s too far away to properly watch the caf¨¦. I groan silently and instead lean against the wall of the neighbouring shop. I¡¯m stuck with standing.


    I carefully free my phone from my tightly packed handbag and return to searching for clues about the guy¡¯s identity. Patrons wander in and out of the caf¨¦. My feet grow cold.


    12:10 pm. I¡¯m searching shady job websites for local ads requesting ¡®models¡¯. None of them are offering anything near what I got yesterday. I check the theatre¡¯s past and future shows for directors, financiers, writers. I check their social media for mentions of productions they might be courting.


    12:20 pm. I shift painfully from foot to foot, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The strap of my bag digs into my shoulder. It may be smaller and lighter than my usual bag, but I don¡¯t normally just stand around like this either. If this guy isn¡¯t here soon...


    12:34 pm. I need to rest my feet. Holding my phone in my pocket, I take one last look at the caf¨¦ patrons. The park bench is better than nothing. Have I been stood up? I almost hope I have. Perhaps I misunderstood the concept of ''midday''. Maybe I missed him, and he didn¡¯t see me very conspicuously waiting here.


    It seems unlikely.


    I turn to leave, but movement at the theatre catches my eye. I spot him as he steps down onto the pavement. 12:36 pm. He hasn¡¯t seen me yet. I could still-


    Our eyes meet.


    Too late now.


    I watch as he crosses the road. He stands tall and proud, tie pin gleaming in the sunlight. Now that I can see him properly, his suit looks even more expensive. There¡¯s no way it came off the rack in a normal store. His hair is immaculately styled, though it makes him look like a dweeb. I wonder if he has a personal hairdresser that does his hair so perfectly every morning. If so, they mustn''t be on good terms.


    His face is expressionless and impossible to read. I feel like my nervous butterflies have transformed into lead scorpions writhing in my stomach. I pray to see any sign or expression that might tip me off as to his intentions. Nothing. I resist the urge to run. The entire creative community is full of horror stories about idiots like me taking stupid risks like this and getting into serious trouble for it. I should have brought Casey with me. Even Laurie. Literally anyone.


    He stands in front of me, broad shoulders blocking my view of the caf¨¦.


    ¡®You haven¡¯t ordered yet?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    He turns and walks into the caf¨¦.


    Wait, what?


    No hello? No apology for being so late? No thank you for coming? Not even a ¡®what will you have?¡¯


    The guy still hasn¡¯t asked my name.


    I stretch my shoulders surreptitiously, trying to make space in my chest for my lungs. I feel like I''m suffocating.


    He returns a few moments later and hands me a to-go cup.


    ¡®Here.¡¯


    Then, he turns and strides away without a word.


    I follow at a distance, reluctant to stray far from the caf¨¦. Fortunately, he doesn¡¯t go far ¨C around the corner is a tiny ¡®park¡¯ ¨C really just a single tree and a fountain crowded in between two buildings. There¡¯s even a plaque that grandiosely reads ¡®Alfred Memorial Garden¡¯. The person who commissioned that plaque was clearly a liar.


    The man sits on the lip of the fountain and sips his drink. I stare.


    ¡®Sit.¡¯ he commands.


    It occurs to me that my feet would like to murder me.


    I sit.


    ¡®So. You care about dialogue.¡¯ he says, matter-of-factly.


    ¡®Yes¡­ is this a script reading?¡¯


    ¡®What? No.¡¯ he looks confused. ¡®This is a¡­ a pitch.¡¯


    Okay, what?


    He frowns.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know what you actors call it. Just listen to me until the end, and then if you don¡¯t like it, you can go. But, listen to the end.¡¯


    I say nothing. This isn¡¯t normal. This man isn¡¯t normal.


    ¡®Dialogue. Convincing dialogue is important. You need to be convincing at a party.¡¯


    I¡¯m not sure where this is going, but I¡¯m definitely not a party person.


    ¡®You have to fool a family. That¡­¡¯ ¨C his ears go red ¨C ¡®That you¡¯re my fianc¨¦e.¡¯


    What?


    Now, in a rush;


    ¡®My parents want me to marry. They¡¯re threatening to disinherit me if I don¡¯t. Soon. They think it¡¯s shameful I¡¯m a bachelor at my age.¡¯


    He can¡¯t be more than 20-25, 30 at the absolute maximum... Unless money can completely stop aging. I guess it kind of can.


    ¡®They kept trying to set me up with suitable women.¡¯ he spits the word like it tastes bad.


    ¡®They wouldn¡¯t stop. I lied and said I had a girlfriend. I thought they¡¯d leave me alone. But after a couple of months, they started trying to set me up again. I told them I¡¯d proposed. They kept demanding to meet ¡®her¡¯. Now¡­¡¯


    He looks pained.


    ¡®Now if I don¡¯t bring her to a party this weekend, I¡¯m cut off.¡¯


    I don¡¯t quite know what to make of this. It''s ridiculous.


    Haltingly, I say;


    ¡®You want to hire me to lie to your Mother.¡¯


    He seems uncomfortable with the way I''ve phrased the job description.


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®For how long?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know! They¡¯re both out of the country most of the time. A month? Two? Then they¡¯ll leave, they¡¯ll leave me alone, and everything can go back to normal.¡¯


    What a brat.


    ¡®Have you tried dating?¡¯


    I immediately regret my question. He looks at me as if I tried to stab him.


    ¡®I¡­ I don¡¯t have time for it. I¡¯m busy. People take too much time.¡¯


    ¡®What do you do?¡¯


    He starts in surprise.


    ¡®You don¡¯t know who I am?¡¯


    Someone has a bit of an ego.


    I shake my head, and he points to a nearby wall. This is when I notice the unusual callouses on his fingers. I follow the direction he¡¯s pointing. There¡¯s a row of concert posters pasted up, announcing an event in about a week. Jacques Glarean.


    Ah. He¡¯s not a director. He¡¯s a musician.


    A goddamn spoilt little rich man child.


    I mean, I get it. I¡¯m not totally without sympathy. I get the desire to spend every waking moment on whatever creative project I¡¯m currently working on. Of course, I¡¯ve never had the luxury. I rarely have the space to make anything for myself. I¡¯m normally stuck at the plan and dream phase.


    Is this man who I¡¯d be if I didn¡¯t have to struggle?


    No. I doubt I¡¯d ever go so far as to shun humanity entirely in favour of my art. But, I also don¡¯t know who I would be if I had grown up with money like that.


    ¡®I¡¯ll pay you well.¡¯ His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.


    ¡®You won¡¯t have to do anything¡­ weird. Dinners. Lunches. Talking to my parents. Hold hands and smile for a camera. I¡¯m not a creep.¡¯


    Then he quotes a figure so large that it¡¯s meaningless to me.


    How much is he losing if he¡¯s willing to spend that much to keep it?


    I lock eyes with him, serious.


    ¡®You¡¯re offering me that much to be an accessory to a crime.¡¯


    He looks taken aback.


    ¡®It¡¯s not¡­ it¡¯s just¡­¡¯


    ¡®Fraud.¡¯


    ¡®No, I''m trying to keep what''s already mine.¡¯


    ''Fraud doesn''t stop being fraud just because you''re doing it to circumvent rules you think are unfair.''


    ¡®I guess.¡¯ He slumps, looking defeated.


    ¡®This is serious. I¡¯m not rich like you. If your parents find out and decide to be vindictive, they could destroy me. Forever. There''s a chance they''d forgive you. Me? I''ll go straight to prison.¡¯


    He nods dejectedly, then offers an even larger figure.


    Holy shit.


    ¡®Stop. Listen to me. Don¡¯t think about persuading me right now.¡¯


    He nods, looking hopeful.


    ¡®From what you¡¯ve told me, you¡¯re a bad liar.¡¯


    ¡®What? No, it¡¯s because I won¡¯t let them meet her.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, that means you¡¯re a bad liar. A good liar would have had a solution long before it got this out of hand. Now, what excuses have you been making?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know. She¡¯s busy, she¡¯s shy. I don¡¯t want them to scare her off.¡¯


    ¡®What else have you told them about her?¡¯


    ¡®Not much. I just change the topic.¡¯


    I sigh.


    ¡®If I¡¯m going to do this, I need to know everything you¡¯ve said. Everything. You can¡¯t leave even the most insignificant detail out. And, I need to know you¡¯re not going to back out because you¡¯re feeling remorse for all the dishonesty. I need to know I¡¯m not going to die in prison.¡¯


    ¡®You won¡¯t! I mean, I won¡¯t say a word! I just want to play my music. ¡®


    I look at him. Despite all my earlier worries, I can only see a wreck of a man with a thin veneer of calm pasted over the top like a fresh and soggy concert poster. I don¡¯t think he¡¯s lying to me. The story is wild, the money being offered is outrageous, and everything about this shrieks SCAM at me, but¡­. I really don¡¯t think he¡¯s lying.


    Sincerity is, of course, only half the problem here; I doubt I can trust his resolve. The instant I become inconvenient, I''m sure he''ll throw me to the wolves. Even if he does stick with it, I can''t trust he won''t expose the lies by some stupid slip of the tongue.


    I shouldn''t do this.


    I really shouldn''t do this.


    It''s just so much money.


    ¡®Fine.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll do it?¡¯


    ¡®Yes. But it¡¯s not going to be as easy as just having me turn up on the day of the party. How much time do you have?¡¯


    ¡®All week!¡¯


    ¡®No, today.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. Um. All afternoon?¡¯


    I sigh and stand up.


    ¡®Okay. We¡¯re going to need somewhere better to plan than this. There¡¯s some space in the theatre¡¯s workshop. It¡¯s not perfect, or particularly private, but the troupe won¡¯t bother us much between breaks.¡¯


    He hesitates.


    ¡®Do you have a better idea?¡¯


    ¡®Yes¡­ No. No. It would be weird if I got a hotel room.''


    ¡®Yes, it would.¡¯


    I sigh again. There¡¯s not enough space in my room for me, let alone two people. I also don¡¯t really like the idea of letting him know where I live.


    I take out my phone and search the name from the poster. Lots of photos pop up. It¡¯s definitely him. There are dozens of photos of him standing awkwardly next to an array of beautiful women. I search for some of their names. Thus far, none are deceased.


    ¡®What are you doing?¡¯


    I look up at him. Then I step over to sit beside him, open my camera in selfie mode, wrap an arm around his shoulder, lean in close, and snap a shot of me smooching his cheek. His look of surprise is perfect. His blush makes it all the more convincing. He leaps away from me, as though I bit him.


    ¡®What are you doing?!¡¯


    I smile absently as I send the photo to Casey, then look up.


    ¡®I¡¯m planting evidence.¡¯


    My phone starts buzzing with replies.


    I turn the phone to face him, so he can see.


    <blockquote>


    OMG


    ARE YOU KISSING JACQUES GLAREAN?!


    OMG GIRL WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!


    IS THAT THE FOUNTAIN NEAR THE THEATRE?


    OMG I WANT TO MEET HIM!!!!!


    I¡¯M TELLING EVERYONE!!!!!!!


    </blockquote>


    ¡®Now, that photo will find its way onto the internet. There will be gossip. It¡¯ll get to your parents eventually. And, as a bonus for me, if we go to a hotel room and you rape and murder me, my friends have photographic evidence that I¡¯m with you to give to the police. This is the first step on the way to defrauding your parents.¡¯


    I think his expression is shock. I¡¯d like to think there¡¯s a bit of awe in there as well. It¡¯s probably more like horror. Honestly, I¡¯m horrified too. I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m agreeing to this.


    I drop the full to-go cup in a bin as we walk past. He may be telling the truth, but I don¡¯t trust him enough yet to drink something he gave me if I didn¡¯t see it being made. I feel a sense of loss, knowing that such an expensive drink is going to waste¡­ but, I¡¯m set for life if I pull this off.

 2. A Comprehensive Plan

    Thursday Evening


    I tap the end of the pen against my nose as I look over the notes spread out across the floor in front of me. I¡¯m glad I finally agreed to the hotel room. We wouldn¡¯t have had enough space if we stayed in the workshop. The undeniably real Jaques Glarean sits on a couch nearby, watching me pensively, violin resting on his knees. I point to my knapsack.


    ¡®That bag, could you grab it?¡¯


    He steps over and lifts it, looking surprised at the weight. I lay some pages of notes on the table.


    ¡®So we met at the Grove Shopping District, six months ago, which is near where you were staying while you played at the opera house. I was commuting there for work.¡¯


    I wave at the rumpled uniform draped over the arm of the couch.


    ''That''s what I was wearing.''


    He looks mildly disgusted.


    ¡®You saw me near the food court on my lunch break. I¡¯ve never actually been to that food court, so we¡¯ll have to fix that at some point, that way I can describe it accurately¡­ I was sketching.¡¯


    He places the knapsack on the table, and I rifle through the ratty sketchbooks inside, looking for one with the right dates.


    ¡®What was I drawing?¡¯


    I hesitate to open the book. I hate showing people my sketchbooks. I especially hate showing them old sketchbooks. I have no idea what might be in there. Most of it is garbage. I reluctantly open the cover. The first page is a miniature city set design I never built. Could have been worse.


    I flip through the pages, drawing attention to sketches that might work. Animals, fantasy monsters, costume designs from past plays. He looks on blankly.


    ¡®You¡¯re good at drawing.¡¯


    I glance at him and realize he hasn¡¯t understood.


    ¡®I¡¯m not fishing for compliments. You need to pick one of these.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. That one¡¯s fine.¡¯


    ¡®No, it¡¯s a man on a bus. We met by a food court, not on a bus.¡¯


    ¡®Ah.¡¯


    I wonder if he''s ever been on a bus in his life. I suspect he hasn''t.


    I keep turning pages.


    ¡®That one.¡¯


    It¡¯s a cowboy riding a unicorn. Not my best work. It¡¯s still cute though.


    ¡®This one?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re sure?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    I turn the page and, below the date, I write ¡®for Jaq, my #1 fan!¡¯ along with my phone number. Then I carefully tear the page out of the book. It feels like desecration. I don''t know why. The last time I moved house I put a bunch of these sketchbooks into the recycling bin. I hated doing it, but I didn''t have the space. Tearing out a single page is far less extreme.


    I hand the drawing to him.


    ¡®This is now your most prized possession. This is how you met your future wife. It¡¯s also a receipt with a date that will hopefully act as proof that we¡¯ve known each other for at least as long as you¡¯ve been lying about it.¡¯


    He looks over it, brow furrowed.


    ''Is there a problem? Should I have written out your whole name?'' I probably should have asked about the spelling too. The name ''Jaques'' has like, a dozen different variants. Abbreviating it compounds the problem. I guess it doesn''t matter in the long run - if I''ve made an error it will add a tiny bit of flavour and charm to the story.


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®No, that''s fine. It''s just¡­ what do I do with it?¡¯


    I sigh, exasperated.


    ¡®You¡¯ve been hiding it all this time. Maybe you were embarrassed it¡¯s such a goofy picture, so you don¡¯t flash it around and show people. You put it in a drawer with cherished knick-knacks, or hang it somewhere people wouldn¡¯t normally see. Maybe you frame it and hang it in your wardrobe. This way, if your parents want to snoop, they find it. You only bring it out if you¡¯re seriously accused of lying, and even then, reluctantly.¡¯


    He nods and tucks it into his violin case.


    I watch sadly as the lid closes.


    Goodbye unicorn cowboy. I miss you already.


    He straightens up and then frowns.


    ¡®I¡¯ve been evasive about everything. The whole relationship. Even basic details about you.¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®So, what you just said¡­ all these things you¡¯re planning out, I¡¯m not supposed to talk about any of them.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s correct.¡¯


    Finally. Verbal proof it¡¯s getting through.


    ¡®Then why are we doing this?


    He makes a broad motion, encompassing the ocean of notes.


    I sit on one of the chairs and lean on the table.


    ¡®We¡¯re getting our story straight. You¡¯ve been evasive with your parents thus far, and I expect you to continue because it¡¯d be weird if you suddenly started blabbing about every single thing. I''m not you, so I don''t have to be so evasive. It would raise flags if I were as evasive as you. I¡¯m going to be asked about all these things. I¡¯m going to have to talk about these things. Then, you might have to talk about them with someone who knows my side of the story already. At that point, if you contradict too many details it¡¯ll look incredibly suspicious.¡¯


    He nods again, then yawns.


    I glance over at the wall clock with surprise. It''s much later than I thought it was.


    ¡®Shit. I should be getting home.¡¯


    Actually, I should have gone home hours ago. I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve missed the last bus.


    I start to stack pages together, ready to go back in my bags.


    ¡®You can leave them here.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t we have to be out by 10 or something?¡¯


    ¡®What? No. I booked it for the rest of the week.¡¯


    I look around at the plush and spacious room. That can¡¯t have been cheap.


    ¡®You¡¯re right though. It¡¯s late. I¡¯m going to head home. Need a lift?¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®Suit yourself.¡¯


    He collects his violin and coat, and walks to the door.


    Once he¡¯s gone, I shuffle over to the king-size bed and flop down onto it, face first. It''s soft like a cloud and smells of fresh linen. I¡¯m not going home tonight. Not while there¡¯s a bed like this I could be sleeping in. I clap my hands above my head, and the lights turn out. I grin.


    Luxury.


    <h2 style="text-align: center">Friday</h2>


    I awaken to bright sunlight, tangled in covers that absolutely aren¡¯t mine. I struggle for a few moments to get an arm free and sit up.


    Ah. The hotel room.


    Well¡­ The wreckage of the hotel room. Paper and sticky notes are strewn across every flat surface. I check my bank account. The first installment is already in there. I feel like I won the lottery.


    I stand and stumble to the bathroom. The blissfully hot water wakes me up properly. The hotel soaps smell earthy and sweet. I feel clean. Once I''m done drying myself, I wrap myself in the complimentary towel and wonder if there¡¯s a laundry available for customer use in the hotel. The only change of clothes I have with me is the old uniform from the office tech job I lost months ago.


    It¡¯s better than nothing.


    I put it on. The cheap synthetic fabric is incredibly unpleasant against my skin after the plush cotton towel. It sticks and scratches, clinging to me with static electricity. If my hair weren¡¯t wet I¡¯d be tempted to see how much charge I could build up by scuffing my feet on the thick carpet.


    Of course, I have more important things to do.


    I survey my handiwork as I wrap the towel around my head ¨C the past six months of our lives are laid out in sequence, side by side. Dates, times, venues. Where my path comes close to intersecting with Jaq¡¯s, imaginary moments blossom outward ¨C stolen from some alternate timeline where everything is rose-tinted, and I magically don¡¯t find him obnoxious.


    I grimace. There are flaws with the plan. We don¡¯t see each other that frequently, and there are no call logs on our phones. No text chains. Sure, I¡¯ve got excuses ¨C ¡®he wanted to keep it a secret, to keep me safe from paparazzi, so we took no photos and deleted our texts regularly in case of phone hacking,¡¯ and ¡®he warned me about his nosy parents.¡¯ His reluctance to talk about me is covered fairly easily ¨C ¡®He just wanted to keep our relationship separate from the rest of his life for a little while, so we could get to know each other without all that fame and fortune crowding in around the edges, making things difficult.¡¯


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    But there should at least be logged calls on my phone from private numbers, or¡­ something.


    What I wouldn¡¯t give to be able to plant back-dated stalker photos on social media from jealous fans who want to know ¡®who¡¯s that ugly girl with him? Is that his sister?¡¯


    Anything more solid would be good. Something with time and date stamps that are hard to fake. The proof I can manufacture is flimsy at best, ready to fall apart under any level of inspection... and I don¡¯t like resting on the hope that there just won¡¯t be a close inspection.


    There¡¯s a knock at the door. I freeze.


    I look like a serial killer.


    Dressed in this all-black tech uniform, furniture buried under drifts of paper, in a hotel room that absolutely isn¡¯t under my name? I¡¯d call police on me. Well, maybe not. I¡¯d at least take a few surreptitious photos of whatever I was doing in this web of crazy with my phone camera just in case I turned out to be a criminal of some sort. I frown.


    Not much I can do about it now.


    I go to the door. There¡¯s a little peephole, and I can see someone from the hotel on the other side. I open the door a crack.


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    ¡®Good morning Ma¡¯am! I was wondering if you would like today¡¯s lunch menu?¡¯


    Food. Yes. I didn¡¯t eat breakfast.


    ¡®Ah. No thank you.¡¯


    ¡®All right then! I hope you have a lovely day!¡¯


    ¡®Oh, wait ¨C is there a laundry service?¡¯


    I mean, if I already look like a serial killer, why not double down and make myself seem even more suspicious.


    ¡®Yes, there is!¡¯


    He explains how to get my dress laundered. It seems needlessly complicated.


    I glance around the room once more while I fiddle with the little package of helpful hotel door-knob hanger things and pull out the ¡®Do Not Disturb¡¯ sign.


    That should mean a cleaner won¡¯t come in and have a fit when they see the mess¡­ and I should be safe to head out. I collect my handbag. I need to go home and get proper clothes, and some food that doesn¡¯t cost twice its weight in gold. If only I¡¯d had the foresight to bring something yesterday when I was gathering props for this¡­ heist? Fraud isn¡¯t really a heist. Heists are cool and exciting. Fraud is just stressful. Charade is a good word. I can''t call it a play. I''m not an actor. Just a liar.


    I didn¡¯t know the room was booked for a whole week yesterday though.


    <hr>


    Sometime after lunch, there¡¯s a knock at the door. This time it¡¯s Jaq looking fidgety. I open the door to let him in, but he just stands and stares at me.


    ¡®¡­¡¯


    ¡®¡­¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    I look down at my clothes. I didn¡¯t spill anything on myself, did I?


    ¡®What are you wearing?¡¯


    ¡®A cardigan?¡¯


    ¡®No, yesterday you were in normal clothes, now you¡¯re dressed like a...¡¯


    Yikes. That¡¯s painfully blunt.


    I grab his arm and pull him into the room.


    ¡®Those weren¡¯t normal clothes. That was my fancy dress for attending weddings, baptisms, and funerals. These are normal clothes.¡¯


    He continues to stare.


    ''You''re supposed to wear black to a funeral¡­''


    ¡®Okay, maybe not funerals, but that''s not the point. What I mean is; the clothes I had on yesterday cost the same as a year and a quarter¡¯s supply of food.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®These cost me significantly less.¡¯


    By less, I mean mostly free. The majority of my clothes are hand-me-downs from friends and family. Some I salvaged from a bin behind a vintage clothing store. I won''t be telling him that.


    ¡®You can¡¯t be dressed like that when you meet my parents.¡¯


    ¡®Sure, I¡¯ll wear the nice dress.¡¯


    ¡®No, even that was too casual for the party they¡¯re throwing.¡¯


    Oh jeez. This is going to be worse than I thought. Probably something involving an evening gown. Absolutely not something I want to wear.


    ¡®The planning¡¯ ¨C he waves at the drifts of paper blanketing the room ¨C ¡®can wait. You need clothes that don¡¯t make you look like you¡¯re following me to steal my wallet.¡¯


    Again. Ouch.


    Leaving the hotel, he drives me to an upmarket shopping center. We completely skip the bottom floor, with the few retail chains I recognise, and go straight to the top floor. I¡¯m convinced that the air up here costs more to breathe. I feel completely out of place.


    ¡®Get dresses from whatever store here. Just, call me over when you¡¯re ready to pay.¡¯


    I stare at him as he goes to stand out of the way, by the window of a suit store. He¡¯s surreptitiously miming the finger positions for some song. I follow, and take his hand.


    ¡®Jaq. This isn¡¯t how you go shopping with your fianc¨¦e. You don¡¯t stand outside like some kind of overdressed, nervous scarecrow, waiting for her to demand money. That¡¯s how you shop with a daughter.¡¯


    Pulling him along, I peer in windows and point at things that I think are pretty, and ask his opinions. He silently blushes a deeper and deeper red. I¡¯m concerned he¡¯ll burst a blood vessel.


    ¡®Okay, I¡¯ll stop asking for advice, just¡­ stop being so stuffy. Loosen those shoulders. The world isn¡¯t going to end if you look at clothes with me. You¡¯re supposed to want to be here with me. Nobody will think it¡¯s weird.''


    He tries to adjust his posture.


    ¡®Actually, it¡¯s kind of sweet you¡¯d go clothes shopping with your fianc¨¦e. Lots of guys would refuse a shopping outing like this with their partner because they think clothes are boring, they don''t want their date to think they have bad taste... and sometimes they don¡¯t want to admit that they¡¯re colourblind.¡¯


    He nods, uncertain. I guide him into an elegant boutique with a name in calligraphy so curlicued that it''s barely legible. Lucinor Solis? Something like that. It''s like the girliest version of a death metal band logo.


    The store is spacious and elegant, and the clothes on display aren''t too far outside my comfort zone. A clerk rushes over to ask if we need help a little faster than I had expected. Does she recognise Jaq?


    ¡®Yes! We would love some help! My luggage was lost on the way here, and I had to borrow some clothes, so I need a completely new wardrobe to last a few weeks! Could you pick out some basics for me?¡¯


    The clerk takes my free hand -


    ¡®I¡¯m so sorry to hear that! You must be dying in that outfit. Let me bring you some of my favourites that I think will suit you perfectly.¡¯


    I¡¯m starting to feel concerned about my fashion sense. I thought this cardigan was cute.


    I try on dresses, skirts, and blouses. I stop occasionally to check on Jaq, but he just sits silently, refusing to meet my gaze. I can see there''s no chance of shopping around. If he''s already in such a bad state after such a short time, I have to get everything I need from just this store. It''s not ideal. Most normal people wear more than one brand. Perhaps I can shore up the holes in my ''opulent lady'' wardrobe at a later date¡­ though I shouldn''t count on it. This guy is flaky.


    It''s really no wonder he¡¯s had so much trouble keeping a girlfriend. He¡¯s a terrible date¡­ bad enough that I worry the clerk might get some unpleasant ideas about the nature of our relationship. If she¡¯s a fan of his she¡¯s far more likely to care if he gets engaged. If she remembers me¡­ she might gossip about how awful we are as a couple. I doubt it will be good for the ruse if there''s someone out there telling the world that I''m a gold digger, extorting money out of this sheltered, innocent dupe.


    Think fast¡­


    I confide in her as she helps me with a zip;


    ¡®He¡¯s not always this way. He just can¡¯t handle being around unfamiliar people. He¡¯s a bit of a genius recluse ¨C he¡¯s awfully sweet when we¡¯re alone.¡¯


    She smiles understandingly. She has no reason to doubt the lie.


    ¡®I¡¯d always wondered what kind of person it takes to be a musician like him ¨C and I guess it¡¯s too much to ask for someone with that much talent to also be a perfect gentleman. He¡¯s lucky to have met a woman that¡¯s willing to put up with his eccentricities ¨C oh, I¡¯m sorry, that was rude!¡¯


    That confirms she knows who he is. I laugh. It''s a little too shrill. Her observation hit pretty close to the truth. Of course, he''s paying me to stick around, so I''m not exactly the noble figure I might appear to be from the clerk''s vantage point. So long as she keeps thinking I''m just that smitten with him.


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t normally feel like I¡¯m putting up with him¡­ but I think next time I lose my luggage I¡¯ll have to excuse him from the ordeal of shopping with me. I feel awful putting this much stress on him this close to a big performance.¡¯


    She looks relieved that I haven''t taken offense to her comment, but that doesn''t tell me much about her opinion of our relationship. I hope I''m seeing empathy or sympathy on her face. I can''t be sure. I feel guilty for trying to manipulate her like this.


    Dress done up, I step back out onto the shop floor and strike a pose.


    ¡®Jaq? How about this for meeting your parents?¡¯


    He can barely lift his gaze from my feet. I walk over and gently lift his chin so that he¡¯s forced to look at me.


    ¡®Come on. You know better than I the type of event this is going to be. Is the dress okay?¡¯


    ¡®¡­sure.¡¯


    I can see the clerk reflected in the shop window, sneaking a photo of the moment with her phone. The guilt evaporates. She''s taking a photo of a stranger who''s in a vulnerable state. It''s unprofessional. It''s cruel. I lean in and kiss Jaq on the forehead. Might as well make the picture as juicy as possible. It''ll be more likely to be picked up by gossip sites that way.


    I don''t even know how to feel about what I''m doing. None of this is right.


    Before leaning back, I whisper;


    ¡®I¡¯ve got some things ready to buy. I¡¯m going to change out of this and into one of the more casual outfits so you¡¯re not photographed with an obviously lower-class girl. If this is enough, we can go back to the hotel room and you can practice all afternoon while I continue planning.¡¯


    ¡®...k.¡¯


    The relief on his face is clear.


    ¡®Jaq. You¡¯re doing great.¡¯


    I pat his cheek gently and head back to the dressing room.


    I can hear the clerk trying her best to chat with him while she rings up the total. He mumbles noncommittal nothings to her, and when I come out, he¡¯s holding several bags awkwardly by the exit. The clerk smiles at me sympathetically. I make the cheeriest expression I can.


    ¡®Thank you for all your help ¨C you¡¯ve been a real sweetheart. I¡¯ll have to come back here again.¡¯


    ¡®My pleasure! The new line will be out in a couple of weeks! If you¡¯re still in town, I¡¯d be more than happy to help you pick out some things!¡¯


    ¡®Whatever your boss is paying you, it¡¯s not nearly enough. I¡¯ll try to make sure I¡¯m back for that.¡¯


    I wave, and we walk out of the store.


    Jaq seems to have completely shut down. He walks stiffly, unable to look up from the tiles under his feet.


    I pushed him too far. Blast.


    I didn¡¯t know it taxed him this much to go shopping with a woman to begin with ¨C this is far beyond mere awkwardness. It had been his idea, though. So perhaps he didn¡¯t know his limits either. The kiss certainly wouldn¡¯t have helped. Mental note; less intense public displays of affection in the future.


    He¡¯s silent the entire way back. The moment we step into the hotel room he swoops over to his violin and begins to play. The shift from stiff to fluid motion is almost instantaneous ¨C all the tension is gone.


    I shake my head as I hang the new clothes in the spacious wardrobe. I feel a little uncomfortable not putting them through the wash first, but it should be fine, right?


    There are a few items in here I was sure I''d tossed into the discard pile. It''s fine. I''ll probably need it all. I clip the swing tags out with the scissors from my nail kit, and discover one with the brand name printed in plain text - it''s actually ''Lucinda''s Solace''. Kind of cute. Definitely better than the vaguely Latin sounding nonsense name I thought that curly scrawl said. I really think they should have hired a different designer for the logo. It shouldn''t be that hard to read.


    I glance over at Jaq. I¡¯m kind of glad I didn¡¯t see the total cost. Then we¡¯d both be having breakdowns, and I don¡¯t think I''d have recovered as quickly. The poor clerk would have had to call us a taxi to get us out of her hair.


    I text Casey to ask her how the rehearsal is going. I need a few moments of normal human interaction before I start work again.


    Things are fine at the theatre. She asks if I''m enjoying my new job. I tell her I had to go on a rush shopping trip to get clothes that fit the dress code. I wish I could tell her everything.


    I wish I had anyone other than Jaq to talk to about any of this.


    I feel sick.

 3. A Party I Shouldnt Attend

    Saturday


    The weekend is a little too punctual with its arrival. I¡¯d have preferred an extra day to grill Jaq for expected party etiquette, though he¡¯s really not a very good teacher. I suspect he doesn¡¯t know a lot of the intricacies himself. Worst comes to worst; I can fall back on the fussy overwrought Elizabethan-era manners I learned as a theatre nerd and play it up as a joke. I hope his parents like jokes. I don¡¯t get the sense that they do.


    The hotel room is almost alien to me now; far tidier than it''s been since the day I arrived. I¡¯ve packed all my work into carefully organised folders. All those fit neatly into a suitcase, ready to take back home tomorrow morning. I¡¯m as well prepared as I can be.


    The room¡¯s telephone rings; the concierge informs me that a car has arrived to pick me up.


    I head to the lift, my new heels clicking loudly on the polished floors. I don¡¯t feel like me. I don¡¯t sound like me when I walk. I don¡¯t even look like me in my reflection on the mirrored elevator doors. It makes it easier for me to embody the character I must become for the¡­ I try not to think about what¡¯s about to happen. I''m not an actor. This isn''t something I''m good at. I can''t let myself think about it, or I''ll start to panic at the absurdity of Jaq putting someone like me in such a key role in his deception.


    The door opens, and I stride out into the lobby ¨C I see a driver in a grey suit nod to me, and I allow him to lead me to a car. He opens the door for me, and I hop inside, careful not to crease the back of my dress or bump my overly styled hair.


    The drive is long and silent ¨C I imagine that my character would be comfortable with the silence, so, despite everything, I must be. I try to focus on the street signs whizzing past. It doesn''t help.


    Instead, I feel guilty that I¡¯ll be missing Casey¡¯s opening night. It¡¯s unfortunate, but there will be other opening nights. I can make it up to her. I hate Streetcar anyway. It''s an awful play.


    I fiddle with the hem of the dress. It''s a little shorter than I''d like, but it''s not too bad. Jaq said the venue would be warm enough without a coat, but I insisted on wearing a bolero with the dress. I''m not sure if I trust his judgment on temperature - men''s clothes tend to cover a lot more skin than women''s clothes. If he''s comfortable, the women around him might still be cold. He wouldn''t know. I doubt he''d be perceptive enough to notice unless someone specifically and directly pointed it out.


    I feel my phone vibrate in my teeny tiny purse, and pry it out. It¡¯s new and unfamiliar ¨C Jaq insisted on buying it for me. My old phone was too cheap. Too old. Too ratty. Of course, the beautiful scratch-free screen on this one is too big for me to operate with one hand, and my minuscule, expensive purse is so small that the phone barely fits. Why must opulence always reject the importance of function? At least the new phone came with a good explanation for why I have no old texts or calls from Jaq in my call log ¨C there¡¯s no call log prior to the day I got it. That won''t correct the problem with Jaq''s lack of call logs, but it''s something.


    I make a face and take a selfie. In the photo editor, I cross out my eyes, tone my skin green, and send it to Casey.


    <blockquote>


    I¡¯m dying here. LMK how the show goes. I bet it beats this.


    </blockquote>


    She doesn¡¯t reply immediately. That¡¯s to be expected. She probably has her phone turned off. I stare out the window and adjust the position of the very real diamond engagement ring on my finger. It¡¯s extremely ugly. I hope it didn¡¯t cost too much. I didn¡¯t want to ask. If I knew, I''d probably be scared to wear it.


    We approach a huge iron gate where uniformed attendants greet people in expensive cars and tell them where to park. We¡¯re ushered through, and I see one of them touch their earpiece and speak as he watches us go. I wonder who he¡¯s notifying of my arrival. Jaq is the most obvious answer, but¡­


    We get to the front door of the mansion, and Jaq is there to help me out of the car. I put my arm around him, and we stand together while photographers flock to flash their lights at us. He¡¯s already struggling to cope. To people that don''t know him, he''d just look a little stiff, a little awkward. It''s fine. The fa?ade hasn''t broken yet.


    It won''t break, it won''t break. Everything is perfect.


    Once the cameras have been appeased, we turn and walk together into the building. Jaq is tall, so his stride is long. He isn¡¯t used to measuring it to allow a woman in heels to keep up. I¡¯m making the disparity much worse by being so unaccustomed to heels. We undoubtedly look an ill-matched pair, so out of place in the perfectly coordinated elegance of the entryway. I feel insignificant under the elaborate vaulted ceiling. The grand staircase, baroque floral arrangements, sparkling chandeliers, and romantic era paintings so large that they''re oppressive in their heavy gilt frames feel unreal to me. Though full of people now, the venue is like something from a Gothic horror novel. I half expect that I''ll accidentally bump a decorative wall panel with a hidden switch behind it and uncover a secret room with the actual portrait of Dorian Gray, alongside an antique wardrobe full of human skeletons.


    Instead of letting my imagination run rampant, I pull my focus back to the crawling crowd of people in glamorous outfits, drinking wine and eating tiny¡­ hors d''oeuvres. I recognise a few faces from movie posters, or at least I think I do. I could be fooling myself. They chatter among themselves, all smiles and knowing glances. Some turn to watch us as we cross the room. I can''t shake the feeling that we''re in a cheap horror story. These perfect faces, their perfect hair, surely they''re a gathering of immortal vampires, playing at being human for their own amusement. Perhaps I''m dinner.


    Beside me, back in reality, I notice Jaq is struggling to maintain his composure; his eyes are on his feet.


    He¡¯s getting worse.


    I lean over and whisper;


    ¡®It¡¯s fine. Everything is fine. Nobody here cares about us. These people are all too busy networking and trying to get ahead in the world to even notice us.¡¯


    He looks at me with surprise.


    ¡®You¡¯re not nervous?¡¯


    ¡®Not at all.¡¯


    I¡¯m dying inside.


    I spot a quiet-looking corner and propel him over to sit. I hold his hand and squeeze it.


    ¡®I¡¯m not nervous because I¡¯m insignificant to these people. They will only speak to me to be polite. They won¡¯t remember our interaction, and by tomorrow morning, they won¡¯t even recognise me on the street unless you¡¯re with me.¡¯


    He looks concerned.


    ¡®That¡¯s not true¡­¡¯


    ¡®It is. And I¡¯ll prove it. I bet you can tell me every single embarrassing thing that ever happened to you as a kid.¡¯ His eyes immediately grow distant, remembering past errors.


    ¡®But now tell me, can you remember just one embarrassing thing that the kid sitting next to you in ninth grade did?¡¯


    He looks thoughtful, then surprised.


    ¡®No¡­¡¯


    ¡®How about a single bad recital by literally anyone other than you?¡¯


    ¡®I¡­ no.¡¯


    ¡®Not even one inappropriately timed fart from someone you know?¡¯


    He chuckles


    ¡®No.¡¯


    ¡®I could throw you into that absurd fruit salad over there, head first, and you could get stuck in it, flailing around with your legs kicking in the air like an upturned turtle. People would laugh now, but within a week nobody will remember it.¡¯


    I squeeze his hand


    ¡®Okay, that¡¯s pretty funny. It might take a month for that one to fade.''


    He laughs, finally looking a little at ease. Of course, I¡¯m still dying. I¡¯m not scared of what these people might remember about me tomorrow. I¡¯m scared of what they want now. I¡¯m scared of his parents seeing through me and throwing me out immediately. I¡¯m scared of walking home barefoot, because I am not walking home in these heels.


    We sit in our nook while party guests drift past, occasionally stopping to chat for a few moments. Jaq seems to be on top of his social anxiety for now. Some of his old school friends gather in a little group around us. A lovely sheltered bubble of pleasantries. I begin to feel a little more comfortable. A particularly dazzling woman pulls me aside and whispers;


    ¡®Okay, what¡¯s your secret? Did you slip him some ecstasy? This is not the Jaques I know.¡¯


    I laugh.


    ¡®No, I gave him a pep talk.¡¯


    She playfully pushes my shoulder


    ¡®No way! That worked?¡¯


    I grin at her.


    ¡®You tell me.¡¯


    The group starts to separate out by gender ¨C men chatting with Jaq, women gathering around me ¨C you¡¯d think they were all still teenagers, not grown adults. The girls want to know how we met, how he proposed. I hear snippets of the boys¡¯ conversation ¨C the intent behind their questioning is similar, but the way they ask skirts around the point. It seems like they don''t want to appear to be too curious. Jaq''s answers are sparse. I make up for it with lurid detail. I''m sure the gossips in this group will share the story with the poor, deprived lads in Jaq''s group, but for now, they will have to wait.


    I feel a little proud of Jaq. He''s doing well, keeping the specifics to himself. Maintaining his reluctance to talk about me, or us, is key. On my side; this tale is easy for me to tell ¨C it¡¯s all pre-packaged and practised anecdotes, ready for me to serve to my hungry audience. He knows all these stories too - it would be so easy for him to say too much, breaking his normal pattern of behaviour. In his shoes, I wouldn''t be able to keep it all in, that''s for sure.


    Though, I suppose I''m projecting my own love of storytelling onto him. He''s generally tight-lipped on all topics. Perhaps this is his default state, even when he has things to say.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jaq freeze. I turn to look for the source of his sudden disquiet. An older couple approaches, the man holding an almost empty glass of wine. Jaq stands and awkwardly stares at his feet. His friends seem to shuffle away slightly.


    Glancing back at my new acquaintances I proclaim;


    ¡®One moment.¡¯


    I pick my way back through the congregation, to Jaq, and link my arm with his. He doesn''t lift his head to join me in staring his parents down. The gabbling crowd quickly dissolves around us as the couple come within comfortable striking speaking distance¡­ Then, all too soon, we''re standing alone. Abandoned by our school of human fish, each desperate to flee these sharks. I had hoped at least a handful of friendly faces would stick around. I overestimated their bravery.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    I hold the woman¡¯s cold gaze.


    ¡®Come on now Jaques, stop slouching,¡¯ says the man.


    Jaq tenses even more.


    ¡®Yes, introduce us to your girlfriend,¡¯ says the woman.


    I can feel him trembling. What did these people do to him?


    I give an endearing grin.


    ¡®Oh! You must be Frances and Isaac! Jaq has told me so much about you!¡¯


    The man smiles warmly;


    ¡®All terrible, I presume.¡¯


    I pat the older man¡¯s arm.


    ¡®Not at all ¨C I hear you¡¯re quite the card player! I mean to challenge you to a game to see if you live up to your reputation! I¡¯m sure you won¡¯t disappoint.¡¯


    I turn to the woman and lean towards her, conspiratorially.


    ¡®And apparently, you¡¯ve got an eye for champion greyhounds ¨C I adore them, such beautiful animals. I¡¯d have loved to meet them if they were in the country.¡¯


    The two of them regard me in their own ways ¨C the man beaming happily, the woman¡¯s expression far more reserved. Still, blank is better than a scowl.


    Jaq is still frozen. I squeeze his arm, hoping he will say something. I am not entirely disappointed.


    ¡®Mother, Father, this is Joanne. She is my wife-to-be.¡¯


    His monotone makes him sound robotic. It¡¯s fine. He¡¯s awkward. This is awkward. I just can''t be awkward. I extend the hand with the engagement ring to the two of them;


    ¡®I¡¯m so pleased to meet you both.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, yes. Come, dear. We mustn¡¯t monopolise the children''s time.''


    Ignoring my hand, the woman leads the man away.


    RUDE.


    I feel Jaq start breathing again.


    He looks at me wide-eyed and terrified.


    ¡®It worked.¡¯


    Feigning ignorance, I say;


    ¡®What did? Let¡¯s go get a drink, honey.¡¯


    I don¡¯t know what his tolerance for alcohol is ¨C or what kind of drunk he is ¨C but I need to get him away from the unsubtle stares currently aimed in our direction before he notices them.


    As we collect drinks from a caterer, I spot the friendly woman from before and guide Jaq toward her.


    She sees me.


    ¡®Oh wow, you survived! I¡¯m amazed!¡¯


    I laugh a little bitterly. Probably too bitterly. I should sound more pleased. The interaction was short, but not particularly bad.


    ¡®I may have, but Jaq is struggling. I don¡¯t know this place. Is there somewhere I can hide him until he¡¯s feeling better?¡¯


    I watch him drain the wine glass.


    ¡®A garden, a closed-off side room? Anywhere a bit quieter.¡¯


    ¡®You haven¡¯t been here before?¡¯ she asks, smiling kindly. I shake my head, and she leads us away, through a door, past some caterers, and down a hallway.


    ¡®He was really making an effort to keep you a secret from them then. I swear he never leaves this place unless he has a performance¡­ I think his room is here somewhere¡­¡¯


    His room? He lives here?


    She stops and knocks on a nondescript door. A door on the opposite side of the hall opens. A man resembling Jaq with longer hair pops his head out.


    ¡®Oh, Sophie, I didn¡¯t think you were going to be here. I¡¯d have come out if I had known.¡¯


    ¡®Hi! That¡¯s okay. You can make it up to me later. Which room is your brother¡¯s again?¡¯


    Brother?


    ¡®Oh, right. Yeah, he¡¯s looking terrible. Over here.¡¯


    He has a brother?


    The ¡®brother¡¯ leads us up some stairs to a large, tasteful bedroom. It looks like it¡¯s straight out of an interior design magazine. I wouldn¡¯t know it was Jaq¡¯s if it weren¡¯t for the violin on the shelf and the music stand in the corner.


    He can¡¯t have a brother.


    Sophie takes the ¡®brother¡¯s¡¯ arm, and whispers to me,


    ¡®We¡¯ll leave you two to it.¡¯ She winks as she closes the door behind them.


    Why don¡¯t I know about the brother?


    Jaq just stands awkwardly by the door, holding the empty wineglass, staring at his feet. He has no answers for me now. I tap his shoulder.


    ¡®Hey. Hey buddy.¡¯


    He shifts his gaze to my hand. I sigh, then push him over to his bed.


    ¡®Sit.¡¯


    He sits, staring at his knees.


    ¡®Are you going to be okay?¡¯


    ¡®Mmm.¡¯


    ¡®I have my phone on me. I¡¯m going to go back out there and tell people you¡¯re feeling unwell. If you need me, call me, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Mmm.¡¯


    I take the wineglass and leave the room. I think I hear a sob through the closed door.


    Shit.


    Do I go back and comfort him? Will that stress him out more?


    I close my eyes and purse my lips.


    Snacks. Snacks are good for panic attacks. Assuming this is a panic attack. If I grab snacks he¡¯ll have time to get the crying under control, he won¡¯t have to worry about me seeing him, and I won¡¯t have to watch. If he''s still crying when I get back, I can hand over the snacks, he''ll probably feel better for having let some of his feelings out, and then I can offer some better-planned comforting words. Wins all ''round.


    I return the way I came, stopping at the point where caterers seem to be most concentrated


    ¡®Uh, excuse me?¡¯


    ¡®Yes Ma¡¯am?¡¯


    ¡®Jaq ¨C the Jaques that lives here ¨C isn¡¯t feeling well. I don¡¯t know where the kitchen is, but I¡¯d like to bring him a non-alcoholic drink and maybe some light snacks.¡¯


    ¡®Oh! Of course! I can get those for you.¡¯


    The man hurries off, and I see the ¡®brother¡¯ taking a tray away from one of the waiters and retreating toward his room. He nods at me.


    ¡®Hi!¡¯


    ¡®Hello.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re Jackie¡¯s girlfriend.¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®Huh. I didn¡¯t think you were real.¡¯


    ¡®Apparently, that¡¯s not an uncommon misconception.¡¯


    ¡®Hah. You¡¯re funny.¡¯


    He nudges me with an elbow and continues on his way.


    That certainly seems like the behaviour of a brother.


    Shit.


    The caterer returns with a selection of dips and fancy crackers, a jug of orange juice, and two glasses. I think he must be a magician because I¡¯d have dropped the whole lot on the floor by now.


    ¡®Here we are! Now, where shall I take this?¡¯


    ¡®Excellent ¨C do you know where his room is?¡¯


    ¡®Yes! I¡¯ll take it there right away.¡¯


    ¡®Might be best to leave it outside the room.¡¯


    ¡®Ah. I¡¯ll pop it down and knock on the door so he knows it¡¯s there.¡¯


    The caterer hurries off.


    I, on the other hand, wander out into the party.


    A brother. Shit.


    I look around, not really seeing any of the faces. I¡¯m not sure what I¡¯m looking for. Maybe some of his friends, other than Sophie. Actually, I can probably rely on her to let people know Jaq is unwell and I''m playing the perfect fianc¨¦e, looking after him.


    Maybe there''s something I can bring to him to distract him? Maybe something to distract me from the uncomfortable feeling growing ever more intense inside my stomach.


    Whatever it is that I''m looking for, it doesn¡¯t jump out at me.


    Until it does.


    ¡®Hello there!¡¯


    I look up.


    The mountainous figure currently looming over me smiles down with perfectly symmetrical white teeth.


    ¡®Hello.¡¯


    ¡®So you¡¯re the girlfriend that Jack has been hiding from us all this time?¡¯


    I feel a sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu as I stare up into the two luminous pools I assume to be eyes.


    ¡®That would be me.¡¯


    ¡®I can see why he was keeping you all to himself ¨C you¡¯re far too cute to share.¡¯


    What? I blink a few times, and my power of facial recognition seems to return. I think this guy is a popular singer. What was his name? I try to play it cool;


    ¡®That¡¯s very sweet of you, but I¡¯m already spoken for,'' I wave my hand to show off the ring, ''thus your flattery will get you nowhere.¡¯


    His smile broadens.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t be so sure of that if I were you.¡¯


    What the fuck was that?


    ¡®If you will excuse me, Jaq isn¡¯t feeling terribly well, I only came back out here for¡­¡¯


    I spot a tray of gourmet looking spring-rolls (maybe?) and swipe a few in a napkin


    ¡®¡­some hot food for him. If you will excuse me.¡¯


    I hurry back into the empty hallway, praying the guy doesn¡¯t follow me. Did he think that was a cute line? It sounded like a threat.


    I hurry back past the brother¡¯s room.


    SHIT. HE HAS A BROTHER.


    I hurry up the stairs.


    WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT GUY SAYING TO ME?


    And to the door of Jaq''s room. The juice and snacks sit neatly where the caterer left them.


    WHAT THE FUCK DID HIS PARENTS DO TO HIM?


    I sit against the wall, next to the snacks, holding my knees to my chest.


    What have I gotten myself into?


    I fumble around looking for pockets until I remember this idiotic dress has none. My handbag was barely big enough for the phone, let alone a bottle of pills. I was going to wrap some in a tissue to bring with me¡­ But I forgot. No panic pills. We can''t both have panic attacks. We can''t both be useless right now. Shit shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit.


    I hear footsteps on the stairs and snap to my feet, open the door and drag the tray inside as gently as I can, close the door and slump against it. Nobody saw me. I think. I want to scream.


    Jaq is fast asleep on top of the covers with his shoes on. Bastard.


    The footsteps pass by and disappear deeper into the house.


    I can¡¯t leave the room. My chaperone is out cold, and the people out there¡­


    IDIOT. This is why we don¡¯t go to parties. Parties are full of people we don¡¯t know, doing things we don¡¯t want to know about, wanting things we¡¯d rather not. This is especially why we don¡¯t go to fancy parties. Those people think they''re entitled to whatever they want to take. IDIOT IDIOT IDIOT.


    I look over at Jaq. At least he¡¯s peaceful now. I notice I¡¯m struggling to breathe and pull my shoulders back to try to relieve the pressure in my chest. I force myself to inhale deeply.


    FOCUS.


    I need to think about only the things I can do now.


    I walk to the bed and fold the free side of the covers over Jaq so he doesn¡¯t freeze. That¡¯s useful.


    I don''t know how to summon the car to go home. I don''t want to wake Jaq. He''s better off unconscious right now. I don''t know who else to ask. I don''t want to risk asking the wrong person.


    I will need to make some kind of arrangements to sleep here.


    I look back at the bed. He¡¯ll die of shock if he wakes up in the same bed as me. I won''t cope well with him in a state of distress that early in the morning. I¡¯m going to have to sleep on the floor.


    I check the closet and find some coats. Those are useful. I can use them as blankets.


    I feel stupid. I feel cheated. I feel angry. I try to focus on the anger ¨C any emotion other than panic. My saboteur of a brain won¡¯t let me.


    I can¡¯t be too mad. It says


    I spent all week in a nice bed. It taunts.


    One night on the floor isn¡¯t much of a price to pay. It heckles.


    I eye the dips on the tray. They look disgusting, but in that way that tells you they¡¯re expensive, and probably have that kind of complex, unbalanced flavour that rich people claim is delicious even though it tastes like garbage to anyone who didn¡¯t grow up with it. Acquired tastes are for people with money to waste.


    My optimistic brain goads; I get to eat these fancy snacks for free.


    SHUT UP.


    I don¡¯t have any pyjamas, and this dress was definitely not designed for comfortable sleep.


    Solutions¡­


    I take a woolly jumper from a shelf in the back of the closet. Hopefully, he won¡¯t be too bothered by me rifling through his clothes like this. No. HE HAD BETTER NOT BE.


    I turn out the light and try to sink into the coat pile, never to be seen again.

 4. Dinner with a Wolf

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Sunday</h2>


    I awaken to someone gently shaking my shoulder. My feet are freezing, and I have a cramp in my spine. I open my eyes and see Jaq¡¯s face mere inches from mine.


    ¡®Good morning sunshine,¡¯ I say.


    He leaps back when I speak. I sit up with some difficulty. I try to stretch, and say;


    ¡®Hope you slept well.¡¯


    He looks guilty and embarrassed.


    ¡®Sorry about that.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s fine. Just don¡¯t get mad at me if I stretched your favourite jumper.¡¯


    He laughs, already more comfortable with the situation.


    ¡®Actually, I kind of hate that one.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, perfect, then where¡¯s your favourite so I can ruin it?¡¯


    He laughs again. I rally.


    ¡®Why the hell didn¡¯t you tell me about your brother?¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ He looks startled. ¡®It didn¡¯t seem relevant?¡¯


    ¡®Relevant? Do you live here with him?¡¯


    ¡®¡­yes?¡¯


    ¡®Then I needed to know.¡¯


    ¡®Does it really make a difference? You already have the plan for my parents sorted.¡¯


    I attempt to stand, but it¡¯s a struggle with my numb and frozen feet.


    ¡®Your parents are usually out of the country, right?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    ¡®But your brother isn¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®He doesn¡¯t really leave the house.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s going to be much harder to fool him than your parents. He spends far more time around you.¡¯


    ¡®¡­I guess so.¡¯


    ''If he were in on this, he could have helped us.''


    Jaq looks horrified.


    ''He can''t know.''


    I have no idea what their relationship is like. If they''re rivals he''d probably love this chance to get rid of Jaq. I guess I can''t argue the point.


    ¡®Do you have any other siblings I don¡¯t yet know about? Friends who visit a lot?¡¯


    ¡®Just Charles.¡¯


    Charles? Oh jeez. Charles Pitch. He was the mountain I met last night.


    ¡®That guy gave me the creeps at the party.¡¯


    ¡®What did he do?¡¯


    ¡®Weird flirting.¡¯


    ¡®He doesn¡¯t mean anything by it. He even flirts with Mother.¡¯


    ¡®Gross. So, um. Is there a shower, and some clothes I can wear for my walk of shame back to the hotel?¡¯


    I can spot the exact moment that Jaq realises I¡¯m only wearing his oversized jumper. I don¡¯t know how he missed the dress draped over his chair. He turns away, standing straight-backed. His ears have turned bright red.


    ¡®What? Are you 5? The jumper is almost knee length. You haven¡¯t seen anything to make you blush.¡¯


    He moves to turn, as if he might look back at me, but instead, he stretches his arm out stiffly to open a nearby door. He points.


    ¡®That¡¯s my bathroom. I¡¯ll get you a towel and clothes.¡¯


    I shake my head and walk in. It¡¯s so clean and empty that it feels sterile. It doesn¡¯t look like a personal bathroom. The only sign that it has ever been used is the toothbrush. No knick-knacks. Not even a potted plant. It''s weird.


    The shower is hot, and my scalp feels amazingly free once all the hairspray and pins are finally out of my hair. When I turn the water off, Jaq knocks and says;


    ¡®Towel¡¯s just outside the door. I¡¯m going to go get breakfast.¡¯


    Once I hear the bedroom door close, I peer out of the bathroom door. There is indeed a towel. And some clothes. Ladies clothes. I hope they weren¡¯t borrowed from Frances.


    When Jaq next returns, I¡¯m sitting at the window, looking out at the garden. It¡¯s enormous. If you were short, you could get lost in there. You''d need to be under four foot six, though. None of the hedges are terribly tall, so someone of average height would always be able to see the house.


    Jaq places a cup of tea next to my elbow.


    ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    It hasn¡¯t been prepared the way I like it, but it¡¯s still hot and caffeinated, so I can¡¯t complain. Jaq sits at the end of the bed.


    ¡®I¡¯ll drive you back to the hotel when you¡¯re ready.¡¯


    I nod and continue to sip the tea.


    ¡®And, I¡¯m sorry about Lionel.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry. It¡¯s in the past now. Just try to give me fair warning next time.¡¯


    ¡®¡­Father wants to take us to dinner tonight.¡¯


    Oh dear.


    ¡®Dress code?¡¯


    ¡®Formal.¡¯


    Ugh.


    ¡®Formal enough I need someone to do my hair for me again?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    Thank the universe for small blessings.


    I finish my tea and stand. Jaq winces.


    ¡®You ok?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, just. You look good in those clothes.¡¯


    I don''t think he realised he was complimenting me until after he said it. He blushes deeply.


    ¡®Whose are they?¡¯


    ¡®¡­Lionel¡¯s ex-girlfriend''s.¡¯


    I laugh. Perhaps he had a crush on her.


    ¡®Was she at the party?¡¯


    ¡®¡­yes.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ll have to thank her next time I see her.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯d rather you didn¡¯t.¡¯


    ¡®Okay dear.¡¯


    He blushes again.


    Damn this guy is easy to fluster.


    <hr>


    On the drive to the hotel, I receive a text from Casey. She sent me pictures of a tabloid magazine with a small photo of Jaq and I at the party last night on the cover. The subtitle reads ¡®Who is Jaques Glarean¡¯s HOT new date?¡¯. There¡¯s a pixelated closeup of my engagement ring. Inside the magazine, they have the clerk¡¯s snap from the boutique and all the details about the designer of the dress I wore. I¡¯m surprised they got it into print so fast. I¡¯m also surprised that they haven¡¯t got my dress size plastered all over the thing.


    Even though I hate the clerk for taking that photo, I¡¯m going to have to go back to the store and give her a massive hug for keeping my measurements to herself. While we may not agree on what counts as appropriate celebrity photography, at least we agree that some things shouldn''t be shared.


    <blockquote>


    OMG I DIDN¡¯T THINK THAT SELFIE WAS REAL UNTIL YOU GOT PAPARAZZID!


    WHY DIDN¡¯T YOU INVITE ME?!


    </blockquote>


    I text her back;


    <blockquote>


    You didn¡¯t want to be at that party.


    Jaq¡¯s parents threw it.


    I¡¯ll invite you to one that isn¡¯t likely to wind up with us both being thrown out onto the street for bringing shame to the family.


    How did opening night go?


    </blockquote>


    We chat about nonsense for a while. She keeps probing for gossip. I don¡¯t want to talk about how awful it was. I don¡¯t want to lie to her, and I really don¡¯t want a record of the truth for a P.I. to scrounge up. I can picture the interrogation;


    ¡®Ms. Knight. Why did you tell your friend that you slept in a pile of coats? We have FOUR witnesses willing to testify you were sleeping in Jaques Glarean¡¯s room. Were you not sleeping with him?¡¯


    ¡®No sir, see, he drank too much and had passed out starfishing across the entire bed-¡®


    ¡®The king-size bed?¡¯


    ¡®So there wasn¡¯t any room for me.¡¯


    ¡®And you couldn¡¯t have just cuddled up to him?¡¯


    ¡®No sir. He was farting. A lot. The coats were a better option.¡¯


    TOTALLY believable.


    I glance over at Jaq. His face is back to the normal expressionless mask. He¡¯d die in that interrogation.


    ¡®Mr. Glarean, your alleged ''fianc¨¦e'', Ms. Joanne Knight, says she slept in a pile of coats on the night of the party.¡¯


    ¡®Yes, that¡¯s accurate.¡¯


    ¡®Because you had too much to drink and passed out, and I quote; ¡®starfishing across the entire bed¡¯.¡¯


    Tomato-red blush.


    ¡®And she was unwilling to snuggle up to you because you were farting-¡¯


    Beetroot-red blush.


    ¡®-so badly that the coat pile was a better option than the bed.¡¯


    Aneurism. Massive brain injury. Death.


    He glances over at me.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    I must be grinning madly.


    ¡®Nothing, nothing. Just a funny text.¡¯


    I try to force my face back into neutral. It¡¯s a struggle.


    <hr>


    Back in the hotel room, Jaq stops in the doorway, surprised.


    ¡®House-cleaning must have been in here.¡¯


    I peer around his broad frame. It doesn¡¯t look any different.


    ¡®You sure?¡¯


    ¡®All the plans are gone¡­¡¯


    I laugh, pointing at the suitcase.


    ¡®I packed it up, ready to vacate.¡¯


    ¡®Vacate?¡¯


    ¡®You said the room was booked until the party.¡¯


    ¡®We¡¯ll still need it, won¡¯t we?¡¯


    Oh for¡­


    ¡®You could have mentioned you were thinking of keeping the room a bit longer. I wouldn¡¯t have packed up if I had known.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ''... It''s fine. I probably needed to sort and file it anyway. It was getting out of hand.''


    He sits at the end of the breakfast bar and starts to tune his violin. I wonder how soundproof the walls are. I guess they would have to be pretty solid, or I probably wouldn¡¯t have been able to sleep through the noise of all the weird stuff that I assume goes on in fancy hotels.


    ¡®Where do you normally practice?¡¯


    ¡®At home.¡¯


    ¡®Would you be more comfortable practising there?


    ¡®Not right now. My Mother¡­''


    He trails off. I sense music-related childhood trauma.


    ¡®You know, you can rent actual practice spaces. The sort where the acoustics and stuff are good for music.¡¯


    He just sort of frowns.


    ¡®Actually, why don¡¯t you get a space like that? Wouldn¡¯t that be a better investment than burning money on a hotel?''


    He puts the violin down.


    ¡®I guess it would. I¡¯ve just never rented anything like that before. My parents always manage that sort of thing when I¡¯m on tour.''


    Holy moly this boy is sheltered.


    ¡®And you don¡¯t want to ask them?''


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®Okay. I¡¯ll make myself useful and see if I can wrangle something up.¡¯


    ¡®The hotel is fine¡­¡¯


    ¡®But you could do better.¡¯


    As much as I¡¯d like to keep living secretly in a hotel on this dunce''s dime, it¡¯s a huge waste of money. A practice space has to be cheaper.


    I find my phone and start searching rental websites for ads ¨C it isn¡¯t too promising. Lots of bare concrete and exposed ducting. Places that need a lot of work before they¡¯re usable. The places that look good are poorly described ¨C probably a tactic to force people to contact the agent to ask for more details. The joke¡¯s on them. I hate talking on the phone, and I refuse to call any of them.


    Hm.


    I locate my old phone in one of the suitcases and plug it in to charge. I¡¯m hoping I have someone in my contacts list that might be able to point me in a better direction. It¡¯s a wonder Jaq doesn¡¯t have an agent doing this for him, instead of his parents.


    I¡¯m developing an unpleasant feeling about the way his parents treat him on the edge of my consciousness. I try to put the thought aside, but it¡¯s like a vaguely spider-shaped spot on the wall ¨C you just can¡¯t ignore it until you¡¯ve checked to make sure. I push it away with force, trying to focus.


    I start to put together a list of numbers for a mass text ¨C anyone that might be tangentially associated with the sort of folk that rent musical practice spaces.


    <blockquote>


    Hi, this is Joanne Knight. It¡¯s been a while! I know this is out of the blue, but I was wondering if you know of any music practice spaces that are available on short notice? I¡¯m trying to find a replacement for a musician whose previous arrangement fell through.


    </blockquote>


    I hit send. Now I wait.


    It doesn¡¯t take long for the first response;


    <blockquote>


    Who is this?


    </blockquote>


    Yeah, thanks. I said my name already. You don¡¯t remember me. Rub it in harder. Arse.


    <blockquote>


    OMG I THOUGHT SAW YOU ON A MAGAZINE TODAY! Is the space for Jaques Glarean?!


    </blockquote>


    Oh boy. This isn¡¯t going to be a fun conversation.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    <blockquote>


    there is space at baker st squat


    </blockquote>


    HELL no. They¡¯d eat this child alive.


    <blockquote>


    Ask Kevin 04XX XXX XXX


    </blockquote>


    I don¡¯t know this Kevin, but I can text him.


    The phone rings.


    Just text me back, you philistine-


    ¡®Hello?¡¯


    ¡®Hi, Jo! Long time, no see!¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, it¡¯s been a minute.¡¯


    ¡®My boyfriend is looking for someone to take over his band¡¯s lease, you know they just broke up right?¡¯


    Didn¡¯t know she had a boyfriend.


    ¡®No, I hadn¡¯t heard ¨C that text must have seemed really callous¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about it! It¡¯d been coming for a while. If you wanna go see the space I can get him to bring you the keys¡­¡¯


    ¡®That sounds great ¨C can you tell me what it¡¯s like?¡¯


    The description of the place, on the other hand, sounds awful.


    Eventually, I get a message from a friend that plays clarinet for a jazz band. She directs me to an agency that specialises in spaces for musicians, and I make an appointment. As I head for the door, Jaq stops playing.


    ¡®Where are you going?¡¯


    ¡®Checking out practice spaces.¡¯


    ¡®Need a lift?¡¯


    ¡®Keep practising, I¡¯ll take the bus.¡¯


    He looks concerned.


    ¡®The bus? Why? The hotel can get you a car¡­¡¯


    ¡®Okay, I¡¯ll do that.¡¯


    Heck. If I keep being driven door to door I am going to get so incredibly unfit, and none of my new clothes will fit. How do rich people keep in shape? They have all the nice food and drive everywhere. Still, a car will make this process about a million times easier, and I¡¯ll have time on the way to grab a copy of the magazine I¡¯m in.


    I shouldn¡¯t.


    I know I shouldn¡¯t.


    I¡¯m setting a very bad precedent for myself. I know that reading trashy gossip articles about myself is likely to end up with me in tears.


    But I really want to read the article.


    <hr>


    The agent is friendly and helpful. A model employee. Too professional for my tastes. I suspect that if I worked here, I¡¯d be fired within a week for being too chatty and wasting clients¡¯ time.


    As she works through her database of suitable locations, I peruse my magazine. The party article is poorly written and there are no photos from inside the venue. Security must have been in top form to keep them out with all those caterers buzzing around. Jaq and I only occupy a small portion of the article, and probably only because I¡¯m new. They don¡¯t have my name. The section on my dress looks like it was copied directly from the designer''s website. I look it up to be sure¡­ and it is. Word for word. If they¡¯d have hired me, I would have at least paraphrased it. Of course, tabloids don¡¯t usually care as much for quality as they do for speed.


    This is why I¡¯m unemployable.


    The agent interrupts my musing on the failures of the for-profit media model.


    ¡®I have some lovely locations you can visit right now, if you like any of them.''


    She offers me a tablet with a selection of properties prepared. I put my magazine away and peer at the thing. I don¡¯t really know what I¡¯m looking for. Beyond the baseline requirements of cleanliness, security, and the neighbours not making noise complaints¡­ I¡¯m at a loss.


    I nod thoughtfully, as though I know what I¡¯m doing. I pick out a few with features that I selfishly want if I¡¯m going to be spending time there. Things like a kitchenette and a decent bathroom. I need outside expertise.


    ¡®Are you a musician yourself?¡¯ I ask.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    Worth a try.


    ¡®Neither am I. I¡¯m an artist. I can tell you which of these looks like the best space for me¡­ but unfortunately, I suspect my fianc¨¦ would have different ideas about the value of natural light.¡¯


    She smiles at me, politely waiting for me to get to the point.


    ¡®Would you mind terribly if I called him to discuss?¡¯


    ¡®Not at all. Would you like a cup of tea while you narrow down your options?¡¯


    ¡®No, thank you.¡¯


    I take the tablet out of her office and sit down with it. I¡¯m torn between just asking the driver which locations are better based on his knowledge of the area and getting Jaq involved.


    I can¡¯t be lazy about this.


    I call Jaq.


    ¡®¡­hello.¡¯


    ¡®Hey sweetie, I¡¯m trying to narrow down the list of locations and was hoping I could get your opinion on some.¡¯


    ¡®¡­whichever is fine.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t have any special requests?¡¯


    ¡®no.¡¯


    I think he may hate being on the phone even more than I do.


    ¡®Okay gorgeous. Kisses.¡¯


    ¡®¡­bye.¡¯


    That was useful. I should have just asked the driver. I send him a message asking him to come around to the front of the building. I look over at the receptionist. She seems preoccupied.


    ¡®I¡¯m just going to show this to my driver, if that¡¯s okay. I¡¯ll be back in a moment.¡¯


    She smiles brightly and nods. It would be so easy to steal from this place. Though, I guess this tablet wouldn¡¯t be all that much of a loss compared to the money they must rake in from VIP clients.


    When I show the driver the tablet, he looks as baffled as I feel.


    ¡®I mean, this one¡¯s near a bunch of nice restaurants... and this one¡¯s really close to some popular clubs. Only this one has decent street parking around it, so if none of them come with a reserved parking spot, that might be good. I don¡¯t really know what else to point out.¡¯


    I pat the guy reassuringly on the arm.


    ¡®You¡¯re a peach. I knew you¡¯d have excellent advice for me. I¡¯ll be back out in a moment.¡¯


    Parking is important. I may not have a car, but Jaq does, and I¡¯m sure he¡¯d rather not have to run in and out every hour to move his car. It isn¡¯t something I normally have to think about. Now I do.


    I mentally place that location slightly higher on my list.


    I don¡¯t have a great relationship with nightclubs ¨C the last time I was dragged into one I was promptly vomited on. Food, though. Everyone eats. Even, apparently, people in nightclubs. They just aren¡¯t necessarily good at keeping it in.


    Near-nightclub moves down the list. Near-restaurant moves up. I place the tablet on the agent¡¯s desk and indicate the ones I¡¯d like to see.


    <hr>


    Returning to the hotel room, I place a selection of rental application forms on the table.


    ¡®What¡¯s this?¡¯


    ¡®Pick one of them. Fill out the form and sign it. Then you have a short lease on a nice practice space. The one I like best is on top. I took photos and even filmed the inside of some if you care to see.¡¯


    I hear rustling paper through the bathroom door as I change into a more formal dress. When I exit, I see him holding one of the forms very close to his face, reading the fine print.


    ¡®Shouldn¡¯t I get a lawyer to look over these?¡¯


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    He looks at me, confused.


    ¡®Isn¡¯t that just¡­ what you do?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a rental agreement, from a reputable agency. You can skim it yourself. The ''bad'' parts will all be related to breaking the lease early, or what happens in case of damage to the property. The bathroom¡¯s free if you need to change.¡¯


    He stares at me like a deer in headlights. I assume he just realised I¡¯d changed my clothes. I wave my hands in exasperation.


    ¡®Earth to Jaq.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    He¡¯s blushing.


    ¡®Why are you blushing?¡¯


    He looks away. I have no idea what¡¯s wrong.


    ¡®Is it because you feel silly?¡¯


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®Is it because you¡¯re embarrassed that you¡¯re taking me to dinner with your parents?¡¯


    Shakes his head.


    ¡®Is this dress too casual?¡¯


    I don¡¯t see how ¨C sleeves to the elbow, skirt to the calf. It¡¯s a little plain, but we¡¯re not exactly going ballroom dancing¡­


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®Do you even know?¡¯


    Nothing. Oh no.


    ¡®Oh my god, is it because you were in the room next to the room I was changing in?¡¯


    Deeper blush.


    I gently bump his forehead with my fist.


    ¡®How old are you?¡¯


    He mumbles.


    ¡®Three? Did I hear three? You¡¯re a tiny baby that can¡¯t handle the idea of people in their knickers on the other side of a wall?¡¯


    His head slumps lower.


    I stop myself. I¡¯m not making his mental state any better by persisting. I¡¯m just bullying him. He needs to be calm and collected so he can get through this stupid dinner. At the moment, he¡¯s radiating enough heat to fry an egg.


    I have to do something.


    I¡¯m not qualified for this¡­


    What would I do if this were stage fright?


    I check the tiny bar fridge for something cold ¨C there are bottles of water and some single-serve cartons of milk. I bring two bottles over to him and hold one against his cheek.


    ¡®It¡¯s not Valium, but¡­ try to focus on the feeling of the cold on your face. There¡¯s nothing in the world but you and the cold water.¡¯


    He puts his hand up to hold the bottle in place. I put the second one beside him, just in case he wants a second.


    ¡®Cold water carrying away all those feelings. They might want to linger, but the cold water just washes them away. Just you and the water.¡®


    I don¡¯t know if growing up wealthy kept this inept man alive or made a perfectly capable man this inept. If this is his nature¡­ if this is all he could ever have been¡­ he¡¯s so damn lucky he grew up wealthy. The world chews up people like this.


    ¡®Can you feel the condensation on the bottle? Pay attention to the way it makes your skin feel.¡¯


    I have no idea how his parents expect him to marry when he¡¯s like this. Then again, they¡¯re probably wilfully ignorant of all his more inconvenient traits.


    He cradles the second bottle, holding it to his chest. I sit at the table and wait, watching as his complexion returns to normal. We¡¯re going to be late for dinner. That¡¯s my fault. I shouldn¡¯t have pressed him. No matter how tempting it was.


    ¡®Hey.¡¯


    He makes eye contact. He¡¯s alert.


    ¡®You going to be ok?¡¯


    He nods.


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    ¡®No worries. Are you going to be okay to go to dinner?¡¯


    He nods.


    ¡®Get ready then. We need to go soon.¡¯


    He reaches out to check his phone. Nope nope nope! Don''t look at the time! I cover it with my hand.


    ¡®No phone. Get ready.¡¯


    He looks confused but does as he¡¯s told. I can¡¯t have him panicking about how late we¡¯re going to be. I don¡¯t think he¡¯d be fit to drive, and then¡­ well, we¡¯d miss the dinner entirely. That¡¯s¡­ not a good impression to give them.


    In the car, I pray Jaq doesn''t notice the time on the dashboard. Fortunately, the drive to the restaurant is peaceful. Apart from the guilt gnawing at my intestines. I¡¯m leading this frightened lamb into a den of angry¡­ wolf. Isaac seemed fine. Frances is the wolf.


    We arrive. I hate myself. I take his arm. Speaking low, I say;


    ¡®We¡¯re late. It¡¯s my fault. I took far too long to get ready.¡¯


    He looks confused. I hand his phone back. He looks mortified when he sees the time.


    ¡®It¡¯s my fault. Not yours. I¡¯m in trouble, not you. We¡¯re late because of me. Okay?¡¯


    He starts to sweat. I can feel his breaths become shallow as the panic rises.


    ¡®Shhhh, it¡¯s okay. It¡¯s my fault. Not yours. I¡¯m the one who is to blame. I¡¯m the one to point anger at. You did nothing wrong. I¡¯ve got you. I¡¯ve got you. I¡¯ll defend you.¡¯


    He nods, but he¡¯s trembling.


    ¡®Come on now. Big breath.¡¯


    He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. He¡¯s starting to look a little better.


    What the hell did his parents do to him?


    I gently lead him to the entrance of the restaurant. There''s not really anything I can do to help him any more. At this point, the panic will only get worse. We can¡¯t escape lateness by hiding outside.


    The host at the door recognises us (more likely he recognises Jaq) and beckons us toward him ¨C at least with his guidance I don¡¯t have to put my ignorance of the fine dining process on display.


    We¡¯re shown to our table ¨C Frances and Isaac are already seated. Isaac¡¯s wineglass is almost empty, as is his soup bowl. Frances has barely touched hers.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry we¡¯re late ¨C it¡¯s all my fault.¡¯


    Isaac looks pleased to see us. Frances doesn¡¯t even attempt to feign a smile.


    ¡®Jaques, this lateness is intolerable.¡¯


    I attempt a jolly laugh. ¡®What was the poor boy going to do? Drag me here without my shoes?¡¯


    She narrows her eyes like she¡¯s inspecting a caterpillar that was foolish enough to attempt to ensconce itself in her salad.


    ¡®You are a bad influence on him.¡¯


    She¡¯s firmly in Evil Queen territory now.


    With all the grace and charm I can muster, I grin at her.


    ¡®The absolute worst. He¡¯s never been late to a single date with me, but here I am making him late to dinner with his lovely parents who have been away for so long.¡¯


    Too much, too much, too much. He was so late for our first meeting. Lateness might actually be habitual behaviour for him, and if it is; now they know I''m a liar.


    Isaac smiles. I think I¡¯ve actually charmed him. Somehow.


    ¡®Oh, I¡¯m sure we can forgive you, just this once, can¡¯t we dear?¡¯


    She glares at him.


    By the time we¡¯re halfway through our mains, Isaac is undeniably drunk, and by extension, unduly chipper. Frances has given me the silent treatment since she called me a bad influence. Jaq has withdrawn into his shell, answering robotically when addressed by name.


    Why aren¡¯t I panicking?


    I¡¯m in a poorly written play.


    These people are paper-thin caricatures ¨C if I didn¡¯t have them sitting in front of me, I¡¯d have called them unbelievable. I almost feel like I¡¯m in the audience, watching this performance, helpless to change the obvious destination of the plot.


    Except, I¡¯m here. Right in front of these people. They¡¯re real. And I¡¯m stuck here with them.


    Gravity betrays me. I feel like my body is dragging me down into the earth. Like my bones are made of stone. I shouldn''t have questioned my composure.


    Stop thinking like that! I can redirect the plot. I can end this dinner without disaster.


    If only my muscles were strong enough to move my leaden limbs¡­


    Move. Move!


    I nudge Jaq¡¯s foot with my own, he shifts his gaze to my wrist, where it rests on the table. Words vomit from my mouth unbidden.


    ¡®Darling, I don¡¯t want to interrupt this lovely meal, but I¡¯m feeling unwell. Would you mind terribly if we skip dessert and go home?¡¯


    ¡®OH! That¡¯s AN EXCELLENT idea'', exclaims Isaac. ''I¡¯M VERY TIRED.¡¯ He says, leaning close and winking with great difficulty.


    Isaac, you are a drunken angel. I could kiss you.


    Jaq¡¯s response is sluggish, but he nods.


    Isaac is already standing ¨C one of the waiters rushes over before he has the chance to shout for the bill.


    Frances fumes silently.


    I take Jaq¡¯s hand and squeeze it. He stands awkwardly, and I do my best to stand with grace beside him.


    I extend a hand to Frances.


    ¡®Thank you so much for inviting us to dine with you¨C you are such delightful dinner companions.¡¯


    She ignores my hand again. Fair cop. I was being snarky.


    ¡®We shall have to get together another time. Perhaps when I¡¯m feeling better, and Isaac isn¡¯t quite so tired.¡¯


    Why am I being such an arse? Don''t poke the bear, Joanne!


    I¡¯m yanked away by Jaq, who seems to have forgotten we¡¯re holding hands. He stumbles through the tangle of tables and chairs in front of me. I keep hold of him, so he knows he hasn¡¯t lost me. Once we''re standing in the street, he stops.


    The night air is smoky and cold. I put an arm around his waist and gently usher him towards the car. We¡¯re not driving anywhere like this, but at least the car is quiet and safe.


    I put Jaq in the front passenger seat, and, with some effort, adjust it into the reclining position. He¡¯s asleep before I even manage to get myself into the back.


    I think about texting Casey to call me when her show is over. I¡¯m pretty sure she can drive¡­ but it isn¡¯t fair of me to lay this kind of stress on her.


    I take out my phone, but I can¡¯t unlock it. My hands won¡¯t stay still. Instead, I seek out the pill bottle ¨C almost spill them ¨C and then lay back in the seat. It takes a bit for these to take effect. I never usually take them this frequently. I don''t want to build a tolerance for them. But, I need them now.


    I watch Jaq¡¯s sleeping face. I¡¯m not a psychologist, I¡¯m not a counsellor. I don¡¯t know how to fix his problems. I just know I need to find ways to limit the time he¡¯s exposed to his parents.


    And I need to get us home.


    How?


    I have an idea.


    I gingerly check Jaq¡¯s pockets. If he wakes up while I¡¯m doing this¡­ I find his phone. Perfect. I press it to his thumb to unlock it and search through his contacts for his brother. The contacts list is surprisingly short. Barely a dozen numbers. It¡¯s a little sad.


    After a few attempts at opening the right contact profile with my shaking fingers, I hold the phone to my ear and listen to it ring.


    Pick up¡­


    The call rings out, switching to an answering machine. Nobody checks answering machines. I hang up and immediately call again. The universal signal for caller in distress. This time the phone is answered after the second ring.


    ¡®Do you know what time it is?¡¯


    ¡®Yes, I do.¡¯


    ¡®¡­who¡¯s this?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m Jo. We met yesterday. Jaq didn¡¯t survive dinner with your parents.¡¯


    ¡®Oh. What¡¯s he doing?¡¯


    ¡®Sleeping in his car. I can¡¯t drive. Can you come and get us?¡¯


    ¡®Can¡¯t drive? I- Okay. I¡¯ll be there soon. What¡¯s the address?¡¯


    I describe where we are and he hangs up. I rest the phone on the seat beside me. Hell of a way to meet the parents.


    I think back on the other times I¡¯ve met a partner¡¯s parents ¨C it doesn¡¯t often go well. Never this badly.


    I¡¯m dozing lightly when there¡¯s a knock at the window ¨C Lionel stands outside the car. I open the door and gently close it behind me.


    ¡®We have to stop meeting like this.¡¯ I say, quietly.


    He chuckles.


    ¡®Yeah, it¡¯s not ideal.¡¯


    ¡®What do we do?¡¯


    ¡®I can drive him home ¨C do you need me to drop you off somewhere?¡¯


    ¡®I have a hotel room¡­¡¯


    ¡®Eh, might as well come home with us. We can stop there on the way so you can grab some clothes ¨C I don¡¯t have any other stuff I can lend you.¡¯


    I laugh.


    ¡®I never did get a chance to thank you for that ¨C Should I return them to you, or embarrass your ex-girlfriend by presenting them to her in a public place?¡¯


    His grin is genuine.


    ¡®Remind me not to get on your bad side ¨C you¡¯ve got a vicious streak¡¯


    This guy couldn¡¯t be more different from his brother. Perhaps he¡¯s the reason Jaq survived this long. He climbs into the driver¡¯s side, and I return to the rear seat.


    When we get back to the house, Lionel insists on leaving Jaq to sleep it off in the car.


    ¡®If we wake him up now, he¡¯ll be up all night stressing. Then tomorrow he¡¯ll be tired and stressed.¡¯


    I don¡¯t like leaving him in the car, but Lionel makes a valid point.


    <hr>


    Lionel leads me to the kitchen to get something to drink ¨C he makes me a pot of chamomile tea. I sit at the counter, trying to think up normal future-sister-in-law type chit-chat.


    ¡®So, your Dad seems nice.¡¯


    Lionel laughs.


    ¡®What did Mother say?¡¯


    ¡®She thinks I¡¯m a bad influence.¡¯


    He turns to look at me, an eyebrow raised;


    ¡®That bad?¡¯


    ¡®I probably am. I really don¡¯t fit in with the kinds of people they invited to the party yesterday.¡¯


    He places the hot tea on the counter in front of me, along with a jug of milk


    ¡®No big loss there. I don¡¯t get along with most of them either.¡¯


    ¡®Has he always been like that?¡¯


    ¡®Jackie? No. He was cuter as a baby. I think puberty ruined him.¡¯


    I smile to myself, sipping the tea.


    ¡®He¡¯s damn lucky he found someone to put up with his shit. Every other girl¡¯s run a mile.¡¯


    I sigh. This again.


    ¡®I¡¯ve dealt with similar before. Actors. You know.¡¯


    ¡®Is that what you do?¡¯


    ¡®Not really. I can be a body on stage if I have to ¨C they usually only ask me to take over unimportant roles for understudies who''ve been moved up to the lead, or when they need more people for a chorus line. It¡¯s not my calling. Mostly, I just build sets.¡¯


    Lionel looks genuinely interested.


    ¡®Sets huh?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. How about you?¡¯


    ¡®Me? I¡¯m a professional deadbeat.¡¯


    I laugh.


    ¡®No, seriously. I stay home and avoid embarrassing our parents. That¡¯s it.¡¯


    ¡®And you¡¯re okay with that?¡¯


    ¡®Eh.¡¯


    ¡®Well, if you want something to do ¨C give me your number. I¡¯ll call you whenever Jaq decides to have another inconvenient panic nap.¡¯


    He rolls his eyes.


    ¡®Sure thing¡¯


    ¡®¡­I can call you for more fun errands too. Maybe if I need help hanging a door, or re-painting an entire backdrop because the director changed their mind the day before a show¡­ or if a friend is moving house and needs someone to ferry their houseplants to the new location.¡¯


    He smiles again.


    ¡®That sounds way more interesting than Netflix and video games.¡¯


    He finishes his tea and wanders to the door


    ¡®I¡¯m gonna go to bed. Catch you later.¡¯


    I watch him leave. What kind of life is that? It seems like such a waste. Surely he has something more constructive he can do? I don''t understand. This family is a disaster.


    These two men are adults. They could go out into the world and live their own lives. Why would they both choose to stay here and be like this? I moved out when I turned sixteen and never looked back. Life was so much easier to live once I was out of my parents¡¯ shadows.


    I suspect this pair would be better off without their parents in the picture too.


    If only I had the guts to slip some oven cleaner in the wine ¨C or something.


    Unfortunately for Jaq and Lionel, I¡¯m not a murderer.

 5. A Streetcar Rushes Towards Two Pedestrians

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Monday</h2>


    I awaken to the sound of a strangled yelp, and roll over. In the doorway to the bedroom stands Jaq and Charles Pitch. Jaq¡¯s embarrassment is palpable. I should have set an alarm so he wouldn¡¯t have to see me in his bed.


    There¡¯s a look on Charles¡¯ face that chills me to the bone. It only lingers for a moment, but I saw it.


    Charles pushes Jaq into the room, grinning.


    ¡®Don¡¯t tell me she¡¯s that forgettable in bed?¡¯


    Oh no.


    ¡®Cut it out, immediately. You¡¯re supposed to be Jaq¡¯s friend. He¡¯s delicate from dealing with his parents last night. Let him recover before you bully him more.¡¯


    ¡®She bites!¡¯


    He winks at me.


    Gross gross gross.


    Jaq sinks into the desk chair on the opposite side of the room. He¡¯s hopeless.


    I glare at Charles.


    ¡®You come to bother me this early in the morning but don¡¯t even have the decency to bring me breakfast? You¡¯re a monster.¡¯


    He feigns hurt while I drag myself out from under the covers ¨C so glad I stopped for pyjamas ¨C and head to the bathroom. He calls after me;


    ¡®Let me know if you need any help in there ¨C I¡¯m sure Jaq won¡¯t mind¡­¡¯


    I glance instinctively at Jaq, but he seems oblivious to the implication of the comment.


    ¡®Stop it, Pitch. Now. You know he can¡¯t handle shit like that.¡¯


    The sterility of the bathroom grates on my nerves ¨C I¡¯m already in a bad mood, I don¡¯t need to deal with the weirdness of this house as well. I toss my pyjamas across the floor.


    After showering, I dig through my bag and find my medication. I really don¡¯t like taking it, but I¡¯m certain this morning is going to need the soothing guidance of diazepam. I choke down a pill and steel myself to face the day. When I leave the bathroom, Charles is sitting on the desk. Jaq holds his head in his hands.


    ¡®What have you done to him?¡¯


    Charles holds up his hands in surrender.


    ¡®Absolutely nothing!¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t believe you. Jaq? Are you okay?¡¯


    He straightens up and turns to me, looking a little better.


    ¡®I¡¯m okay. He¡¯s just being¡­ him. Don''t be mad.¡¯


    I walk over and rest a hand on his shoulder. I¡¯d rather go for a hug ¨C it would be the more appropriate display of affection, but I still don¡¯t know Jaq¡¯s tolerance for physical contact. I give his shoulder a squeeze. He fixes his gaze somewhere near my hip and says;


    ¡®Charles suggested that we go out together today. To get me out of the house.¡¯


    At least that¡¯s a decent idea.


    ¡®And Jack tells me that you¡¯ve been looking to rent a practice space together?¡¯


    I eye him. This is probably a safe topic for discussion, but if we do rent somewhere, I don''t want Pitch to know where it is. I hate the idea of him dropping by at random. I find him intolerable.


    ¡®I found a few places I like the look of yesterday ¨C Jaq hasn¡¯t chosen one yet.¡¯


    ¡®Perhaps I could show you more?¡¯


    I force myself not to physically recoil at the suggestion. This man gives me the creeps something fierce. Normally the leering alone would be enough to make me avoid him like the plague, but... he¡¯s Jaq¡¯s friend. Possibly his only friend. I can''t avoid him like that.


    I still want to chase him out of here, screaming bloody murder.


    I resist the urge.


    ¡®Sounds like a plan.¡¯


    He beams.


    ¡®Wonderful!¡¯


    He playfully punches Jaq in the shoulder.


    ¡®Come on then, let¡¯s go.¡¯


    Jaq leads the way out of the room, and I follow. Charles is close behind me. I feel his breath on my neck, and he whispers into my ear


    ¡®You¡¯re an odd one. But I like unusual things. It won¡¯t be long before you get tired of Jack¡¯s shit. When you are¡­ I¡¯m here for you.''


    FUCK RIGHT OFF.


    I struggle not to turn back and claw at the man¡¯s face ¨C rage fills my chest with cold fire. If thoughts could kill¡­ he would be little more than a mote of dust blowing away on the breeze.


    Instead of letting myself get tied up in knots thinking about how much I hate Charles, I spend the drive considering my next move with Frances. Someone else I dislike.


    She¡¯s a difficult one. I thought we might bond over a shared love of animals, but¡­ I get the feeling mentioning her greyhounds was a mistake. Perhaps not perceived as an insult¡­ maybe an invasion? She blanked me out. I¡¯m not sure why. Most people love to talk about their pets ¨C though there¡¯s the possibility she doesn¡¯t see her dogs as pets.


    It¡¯s difficult for me to get a read on her personality when both interactions I¡¯ve had with her were so short and negative¡­ and Jaq won¡¯t talk about her, no matter how much I try to push for answers. I could try to ask Lionel? How do I do that without raising suspicion?


    I doubt she will ever like me.


    Fondness, or better, friendship would be ideal, but it¡¯s unnecessary. What I need from her most is respect. I hope it¡¯s something I can earn ¨C if I can show her that I¡¯m capable of protecting Jaq from the world, or show her that I¡¯m good for his career¡­ it might help. But, that¡¯s assuming my interference won¡¯t enrage her. I doubt that she means to keep her boys as sheltered babies, reliant on her for everything. She leaves the country frequently. Stays away for extended periods. It''s more likely that neither of her children have developed the will to break away and live for themselves.


    I grumble to myself. I need more information before I can make such grand judgments.


    I need to be able to talk to her, or watch her talk to others.


    I need to know the kind of people she respects.


    The car stops in front of an even more lavish and far more modern mansion than the one we just left. This is not the promised destination. Charles taps the steering wheel and cheerily announces;


    ¡®We¡¯re here!¡¯


    ¡®This is your house¡­¡¯ says Jaq in a confused monotone.


    ¡®Of course it is. I¡¯m hurt you didn¡¯t ask to come over sooner. I forgive you though! Mi casa is su casa. You can twiddle on your fiddle wherever you like.¡¯


    GROSS.


    He winks. I fume.


    This arrangement is great for Jaq ¨C it keeps him away from his parents, gets him out of the house, and gives him space to practice for free¡­ but it¡¯s going to hurt me. No, it¡¯s going to kill me.


    I don¡¯t need a crystal ball to see that particular doom approaching.


    We get out of the car and cross to the house. It has that trendy minimalist style that is so incredibly expensive. Stark white walls, blocky furniture that all perfectly matches¡­ While there¡¯s no visual resemblance, the atmosphere reminds me of Jaq¡¯s house. The lack of personal touch. The lack of evidence that a human lives here. No loose mail, no shoes left in odd places. No forgotten glass sitting empty on the mantle. I hate it. I¡¯m not sure how to describe my irrational loathing for the space¡­ perhaps it¡¯s a reaction to the insincerity of it all? These perfectly curated rooms house imperfect creatures ¨C imperfect creatures that can¡¯t wear their imperfections on the outside. Everything here is hollow. A thin veneer over a rotted-out core.


    Lost in my thoughts, I don¡¯t notice that Jaq has left the room.


    Charles seizes the opportunity by seizing me.


    His arms wrap around my waist from behind, and he pulls me close


    ¡®So tell me¡­ do you like my home?¡¯


    I freeze.


    ¡®I¡¯d be happy to give you the grand tour¡­¡¯


    Getawaygetawaygetaway.


    ¡®Or maybe you¡¯d rather I take you straight to-¡®


    I stamp on his foot, hard. He gasps and releases me ¨C I take the opportunity and run, following the sound of Jaq¡¯s violin. It doesn¡¯t take long for Pitch to recover from the shock ¨C but by the time he catches up, I¡¯m sitting in a chair next to Jaq.


    His music is perfection. He sways with it ¨C absorbed in it, oblivious to my terror.


    Charles smiles sweetly at me as he enters the room. He sits down, reclining lazily, as though nothing had happened.


    I need a way out. Any reason to leave¡­ I could say I need to get to work¡­ but then he¡¯d probably insist on driving me to the theatre, and I don¡¯t want to be alone in a car with him. Shopping maybe? Food? Even if I claimed I had a doctor¡¯s appointment¡­


    I need out.


    I text Lionel.


    <blockquote>


    Trapped at Charles'' evil lair, Jaq is hypnotised, send help


    </blockquote>


    His reply is quick;


    <blockquote>


    Have you tried throwing cold water in his face? I hear that works a treat for breaking hypnosis.


    </blockquote>


    I surreptitiously send a photo with Jaq in the foreground, playing frantically, his eyes closed, Charles lounging in the background, arm extended invitingly across the back of his couch, legs spread across two seat cushions, head tilted to one side, staring at me¡­


    <blockquote>


    Oh jeez


    You might need garlic and a silver bullet for that one


    </blockquote>


    That¡¯s cute.


    <blockquote>


    Any chance you would have a reason to turn up here out of the blue? I hear there¡¯s strength in numbers.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    </blockquote>


    Come on, come on.


    <blockquote>


    You weren¡¯t kidding about sending me on errands, huh?


    Ok. I don¡¯t have anything better to do anyway.


    </blockquote>


    YES.


    After a few minutes, Jaq¡¯s phone rings. He stops playing to answer it.


    ¡®Huh? The venue? ¡®


    I can¡¯t quite make out the voice on the other end.


    ¡®¡­I can send Jo¡­ Yeah, okay.¡¯


    He turns to me;


    ¡®Would you mind-¡®


    ¡®It¡¯s okay. I¡¯ll go.¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯ll go¡­ mhmm. Okay¡­'' then, to me; ''He¡¯s going to pick you up from here.¡¯


    ¡®Okay. ¡®


    ¡®She says ok. Okay.¡¯


    He hangs up, and without another word, returns to playing.


    <hr>


    When Lionel arrives, Charles sees me to the door. He can¡¯t resist the chance to say something weird.


    ¡®You were saved by a lucky coincidence this time, but I¡¯ll catch you next time.¡¯


    My skin crawls. I glare at him and hurry to Lionel¡¯s car. What is with these people? They¡¯re so transparently just¡­ bad.


    Once inside the enclosed safety of the vehicle, I start to shake.


    ¡®What the fuck is wrong with that guy? Isn¡¯t he supposed to be Jaq¡¯s best friend? Why the fuck is he creeping on me so fucking hard?¡¯


    Lionel laughs harshly.


    ¡®He¡¯s bored. He¡¯s rich. He¡¯s an arse. He likes to mess with people. He especially likes to mess with people who are easy to fluster. He probably meant to test Jackie at first, see if he could make him jealous, but I¡¯ll bet he¡¯s sensed that you¡¯ve got weaknesses of your own he can poke at. You''re new, so you''re a more interesting target right now.¡¯


    I turn my eyes skyward.


    ¡®Yeah, my weakness is that he¡¯s twice my size, has far more money and power, and if he assaulted me I¡¯d have the option of either remaining silent, a living testament to the cruelty built into our current systems of power, or living the rest of my life constantly on guard for a baying mass of his rabid fans screaming at me, calling me a lying whore and threatening to murder me in extremely graphic ways¡¯


    Lionel glances over at me.


    ¡®Well, shit.¡¯


    We drive in awkward silence for a while.


    ¡®Sorry. That outburst was unfair on you. I¡¯m just a bit stressed out. I¡¯m not used to that kind of treatment. Thank you for coming to rescue me.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about it. It¡¯s no big deal.¡¯


    This time, the silence is a little easier.


    My phone buzzes ¨C it¡¯s Casey with another tabloid photo, this time of Jaq and I leaving the restaurant. They¡¯re speculating about a possible fight between us. It does look a little that way ¨C his scowl, my worried look. I smile a little bit, comforted that Casey¡¯s looking out for me like this¡­ I still feel guilty for not having gone to see her show yet.


    I can fix that.


    ¡®¡­do you like theatre?¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®My friend ¨C she¡¯s in a production of Streetcar. I missed opening night, and I feel bad. Do you want to see it tonight?¡¯


    ¡®Sure.¡¯


    I text Jaq asking if he wants to go too. If I can get him away from Charles, I might be able to talk to him about his friend¡¯s fucked up games.


    Lionel may even back me up.


    When Lionel parks the car I realise that I didn¡¯t actually give him a destination. I look around. It¡¯s an unfamiliar street lined with cramped townhouses. Lionel says;


    ¡®There¡¯s a place near here that does good falafel. It¡¯s nearly lunchtime. Figured you¡¯d want to eat.¡¯


    I forgot food. I¡¯m starving.


    The caf¨¦ he takes me to is cute ¨C The tablecloths are bright and colourful, and hanging baskets of flowers act as a sort of curtain, providing a little privacy for patrons. There¡¯s a rotating glass cake stand on one of the counters, full of tiny cupcakes decorated to look like cartoon characters and animals. The waitress smiles when she sees Lionel and leads us to a table towards the back. We sit, and she hands me a menu.


    There are no prices listed on the menu. That worries me. If they assume you don¡¯t care about the prices, then they¡¯re probably so expensive that someone like me couldn¡¯t afford even the most basic item.


    As though reading my mind, Lionel says


    ¡®My treat.¡¯


    I accept reluctantly.


    We chat over lunch, and I share the cover stories I¡¯d invented. He seems to believe them¡­ but it doesn¡¯t feel good. Lionel doesn¡¯t seem like a villain. He¡¯s just¡­ a brother. A good one at that ¨C if he¡¯s willing to go this far out of his way for his not-yet sister in law¡­


    Why didn¡¯t Jaq include him in this stupid scheme? Is he too honest? Would he object?


    I mean. Jaq hired me to help him defraud his parents. If anyone was going to object, it would be their other son.


    I tell him to ask Jaq about the drawing of the cowboy. He laughs. He asks if I¡¯ve got my work in any galleries at the moment ¨C I¡¯m a little surprised.


    ¡®No ¨C most of the things I do aren¡¯t suitable for a gallery ¨C sets are too big for most indie art spaces, and doodles of cowboys aren¡¯t really ¡®high art¡¯.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t turn your doodles into paintings?¡¯


    ¡®¡­Never really had the opportunity to. Paints and canvasses are more expensive than pens and paper. They take up a lot more space too.¡¯


    He frowns.


    ¡®If you had the chance, would you paint?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t really know. I think I¡¯d still focus more on sculpture.¡¯


    ¡®You sculpt?¡¯


    ¡®A set¡­ it¡¯s a sculpture that serves a purpose. You can climb on it ¨C it helps you tell a story. It¡¯s¡­ art you can play with.¡¯


    He listens intently.


    ¡®Did you build the sets for this production of Streetcar?¡¯


    I nod.


    ¡®Not all of it though. Some parts were salvaged from older productions, and I had some help with the newer parts as well. I can point out the parts I did.¡¯


    I feel a buzz in my pocket ¨C it¡¯s Jaq. I sigh, disappointed.


    ¡®Jaq won¡¯t be joining us tonight.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll still go with you. Can¡¯t let your friend down.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks.¡¯ I say, hoping it¡¯s enough to express my gratitude.


    I want to be there for Casey ¨C and yet I¡¯ve been totally absent for the past couple of days. A few texts now and then, but that¡¯s not the same as being there. I haven¡¯t even looked up reviews of the performance. I¡¯m a terrible friend.


    After lunch, we walk along the waterfront. Pigeons and sparrows squabble over crumbs left behind by picnickers. The wind off the water is cold.


    ¡®Tell me about yourself.¡¯ I say, still trying to work out what a future sister-in-law talks about.


    ¡®You probably know most of it.¡¯


    ¡®Not really. Even under intense interrogation conditions, Jaq doesn¡¯t talk about himself much. You, your parents, even his school life... He wanted to keep me away from it all, I think.¡¯


    Under intense interrogation, he forgot to mention he even had a brother.


    ¡®I guess that makes sense. I mean, you¡¯ve met Mother.¡¯


    I laugh, though it¡¯s forced.


    ¡®I wouldn¡¯t say that. I saw her. She refused to shake my hand, twice, and apart from calling me a bad influence, she¡¯s refused to speak to me entirely. I don¡¯t think that counts as a real meeting.¡¯


    Lionel looks surprised.


    ¡®Wow, you must have rattled her cage. She normally at least feigns niceties.¡¯


    ¡®Really? I wonder why¡­¡¯


    He shrugs. I mumble at my feet, almost hopeful he doesn''t hear me;


    ¡®Maybe she¡¯s angry that I¡¯m real. If she was certain I was a lie¡­ then I¡¯ve contradicted her by existing.¡¯


    Maybe I''m not demure enough. If I''m wrong about her not really caring about controlling her sons, then I''ve already threatened her by being far too feisty.


    Or, maybe she wanted Jaq to be a failure so she had an excuse to hurt him more.


    What the fuck is wrong with these people?


    Out loud, I say;


    ¡®If I had a better idea why she¡¯s like this¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡¯


    I laugh apologetically, meeting his gaze again.


    ¡®Sorry, I keep saying depressing things. I¡¯m all doom and gloom today.¡¯


    Lionel gives me a one-armed hug.


    ¡®You just got thrown into this mess of a family ¨C it¡¯ll take a while to get used to it.¡¯


    We slip back into silence. My mind races, drowning in unanswerable questions about Frances¡¯ motivation. She¡¯s turned into a bat-winged demon in my thoughts. It¡¯s the only explanation that makes sense to the emotional part of my brain, and yet, it reduces her to little more than an obstacle for a hero to overcome. No depth, just opposition for the sake of opposition.


    I can¡¯t let my understanding of her flatten so much ¨C she¡¯s a human being. Humans are complex.


    I just don¡¯t see it yet.


    We reach the end of a pier and I stare down into the water. Empty plastic bottles and chocolate wrappers tangled with water weeds float by.


    ¡®Can¡¯t imagine the fish in there are healthy.¡¯


    Lionel snorts in response.


    <hr>


    We arrive at the theatre early so that I have a chance to say hello to Casey ¨C she¡¯s already in costume, but she runs out to hug me anyway.


    ¡®You came!¡¯


    ¡®Of course I did.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you! I know you hate this play.¡¯


    I give her a squeeze.


    ¡®Yeah, but I hate Jaq¡¯s parents more, so¡­¡¯


    She laughs and lets me go. I turn to Lionel;


    ¡®This is my shiny new future brother-in-law, Lionel.¡¯


    Casey¡¯s eyes widen, and softly, barely containing her excitement, she says


    ¡®You¡¯re engaged?!¡¯


    Shit. I didn¡¯t tell her that. She bounces on her heels


    ¡®You¡¯re absolutely going to have to bring Jaques next time! I have to meet him!¡¯


    I can hear Director Hollis yelling from backstage;


    ¡®You better go back and get ready-''


    She gives Lionel a quick hug before she turns and runs back to the door, shouting;


    ¡®Next time! I expect to see Jaques! Don¡¯t disappoint me!¡¯


    I shake my head. I have no idea how to introduce the two. She¡¯ll want to hug him and he¡¯ll turn to stone, then I¡¯ll have to spend the rest of the meeting reassuring her that he¡¯s just shy, and him that she¡¯s just friendly.


    Still looking a little surprised, Lionel says;


    ¡®So you¡¯ve dragged me to a play you hate?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. It¡¯s not easy to watch.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®So there was an ulterior motive to bringing me ¨C you want someone to complain about it with.¡¯


    ¡®Shit, you caught me. I mean¡­ I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about, officer. I¡¯m just here to support my friend.¡¯


    I try my best to look innocent. He tries his best to look stern and disapproving. I stick out my tongue and bound up the stairs to the auditorium doors.


    I think about bailing, coming back at the end. Pretending I saw it. I¡¯ve always struggled to watch Streetcar. It¡¯s too real. Too close to home. It makes me feel vulnerable ¨C which is exactly what it sets out to do. It isn¡¯t entertainment. It isn¡¯t meant to be fun. It¡¯s one of those thinkers¡¯ plays. I usually like things that make me think, but this¡­ human cruelty is a topic I¡¯m forced to think about too much already.


    Casey is playing Stella. It¡¯s kind of a big deal. So here I am.


    ¡­I shouldn¡¯t have brought Lionel. He¡¯s going to hate me by the end of it. I think I need the catharsis of having someone to rant about it to. Maybe he¡¯ll enjoy having the chance to complain about my boring Streetcar tirade to Jaq. Brotherly bonding through complaining about girls.


    I don''t think that''s the kind of relationship they have. I don''t know.


    He catches up to me, breathing hard.


    ¡®Jeez, you just flew up those steps.¡¯


    I look back at the staircase. It¡¯s not that steep.


    ¡®Oh, you poor baby. Don¡¯t worry, the next set is all downhill. And you¡¯re going to love the seats.¡¯


    We make our way down to the awful wing seats set aside for crew and cast members¡¯ comped guests. My seat is held together with silver duct tape. It¡¯s narrow, creaky, and extremely uncomfortable. Lionel sits down in the seat beside me, then stands again and stares back down at it.


    ¡®Did it bite you?¡¯


    ¡®No, just¡­ that¡¯s awful.¡¯


    He sits again, gingerly this time.


    ¡®We¡¯re supposed to watch a show while sitting in these? 10 minutes in this chair and you¡¯re going to have to carry me out.¡¯


    ¡®This is just what you get when you¡¯re watching theatre for free.¡¯


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®This place desperately needs a renovation.¡¯


    He¡¯s not wrong, but the theatre can barely afford to keep its doors open at all. It isn''t well positioned geographically to attract affluent young hipsters who''d want to see the kinds of things that get onto the stage here. Regular people don¡¯t go to the theatre anymore - movie tickets are cheaper. The concessions stand in both the theatre and the cinema are grossly overpriced, though. I check my purse to make sure I have enough for an ice cream cone at the intermission. This is the only place I¡¯ll accept that kind of pricing ¨C I didn¡¯t pay for a ticket, and the theatre needs to get money somehow.


    ¡®Should we have brought flowers or something for your friend?¡¯


    ¡®No, coming along is a big enough deal. If I brought her flowers as well¡­ she¡¯d probably worry I was dying or something.¡¯


    <hr>


    The show ends late, and Lionel drives me home ¨C I don¡¯t realise until it¡¯s too late that ¡®home¡¯ means his home. Jaq''s probably in his room. I don¡¯t want to spend another night in a pile of coats on the floor¡­ but we¡¯re here now and it¡¯d be weird for me to ask to be taken back to the hotel.


    I hesitate at Jaq¡¯s door, thinking.


    I hear footsteps from the stairs and look back ¨C Lionel¡¯s staring at me from the bottom. He raises his hands in confusion. Whispering loudly, he says;


    ¡®Did he lock the door?¡¯


    I shrug and nod, silently thanking him for coming up with an excuse for me.


    ¡®Arse.¡¯


    He waves me down. I descend the stairs


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry, there are guestrooms.¡¯


    O'' Hypnos, god of sleep. I accept your boon with a grateful heart.


    The guest room is nearly identical to Jaq¡¯s room. I hate it with equal passion. The d¨¦cor in every room matches aggressively ¨C this latest affront serves to compound my previous irritation. This isn¡¯t a house for humans to live in. It''s nothing but packaging. It exists to be conspicuously tasteful and expensive. It¡¯s a fa?ade, covering the coarse and incomplete hearts of its owners.


    Not that I really know much about the owners, or how their hearts are doing. I sigh. I¡¯m letting my melodramatic nature take over my ability to reason. Probably because I¡¯m tired. I take off my shoes and climb into the bed.

 6. Dinner with a Hydra

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Tuesday</h2>


    I awaken slightly confused. For a moment I think I¡¯m in Jaq¡¯s bed, which startles me wide awake. Sitting up, I can see the subtle differences between this room and his room. Mostly the absent music stand. I rub my face.


    Why must I spend my life sleeping where my clothes are not?


    At least this time I¡¯m not faced with the dilemma of putting a nasty party dress back on or leaving the house in my knickers. Re-wearing casual clothes is somehow far less offensive to me.


    My stomach growls, and I check my phone ¨C I¡¯ve slept in a bit. I think I recall where the kitchen was. I put my shoes back on, run my fingers through my hair, and try to quietly make my way to the kitchen. I can¡¯t hear Jaq practicing, so I don¡¯t know if he¡¯s up, or out, or just busy doing something else.


    As I reach the kitchen doors, I stop.


    Someone¡¯s in there.


    I can¡¯t make out the words, but I hear the irritation in Lionel''s voice as he talks. If he¡¯s on the phone¡­


    I turn to go back when I hear the faintest mumble in reply ¨C he¡¯s talking to Jaq.


    I¡¯m not sure if I should, but¡­


    I creep to the door and place my ear close.


    ¡®¡­seriously dude, what¡¯s your problem?¡¯


    Jaq mumbles.


    ¡®No, you don¡¯t get it ¨C relationships take work. You can¡¯t just expect Jo to be okay with your usual bullshit.¡¯


    ¡®Well, maybe I can-''


    ¡®You fucking selfish shit ¨C she doesn¡¯t deserve this. She¡¯s too smart to let herself be treated like this. She¡¯ll leave you.¡¯


    ¡®What the fuck do you know?¡¯


    ¡®Nothing, because you don¡¯t talk to me anymore! I¡¯m trying to help you!¡¯


    Lionel¡¯s¡­ defending me?


    I step back from the door. I don¡¯t know if this is a good thing or not. I don¡¯t think Jaq¡¯s prepared to argue like this¡­ and I don¡¯t want to be the cause of an argument.


    Lionel is a good person. He seems to genuinely care about Jaq. I can''t let them argue over this.


    I reach for the door to interrupt them just as it swings open.


    ¡®Oh!¡¯


    Lionel''s worried face is backlit by the bright kitchen.


    ¡®You heard that didn¡¯t you.¡¯


    ¡®¡­some of it.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    I look past Lionel to Jaq, sitting at the table with his back to me. I quickly reach a decision.


    I pat Lionel¡¯s arm and say,


    ¡®Don¡¯t leave yet.¡¯


    He steps back to let me pass, and I go over to Jaq.


    ¡®You need to talk to Lionel.¡¯


    Jaq looks up, frowning.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    ¡®Then I¡¯ll talk to him.¡¯


    Jaq''s frown deepens.


    ¡®No!¡¯


    In a lower voice, I say


    ¡®He¡¯s not stupid. He knows you. He knows there¡¯s something wrong. He has to be told.¡¯


    ¡®¡­Told what?¡¯


    I look up ¨C Lionel¡¯s right beside me.


    I glance around. This room is too easy to eavesdrop on. Even I managed it.


    ¡®Maybe this isn¡¯t the right place. Let¡¯s all go out.¡¯


    The three of us leave in silence. Jaq¡¯s scowl frozen in place. Lionel¡¯s irritation manifests in his heavy footfalls. I hate this. Communication is my middle name. I chat with old ladies on the bus. I waffle on about the weather with the clerk at the grocery store. This silence is stifling.


    We reach Jaq''s car. Once all the doors are shut, I turn and rest my back against my door.


    Deep breath. Deep breath.


    I''m terrified I''m about to ruin everything, but, at the same time, Jaq isn''t stopping me. He mustn''t think that doing this is the end.


    ¡®I¡¯ve known Jaq for¡­ about a week now.¡¯


    Lionel looks shocked. Jaq sulks.


    ¡®We¡¯re not engaged. We¡¯re not even dating.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®Jaq lied to Frances and Isaac because they were threatening to disinherit him if he didn¡¯t hurry up and get married. He hired me to help him complete the lie.¡¯


    Lionel''s face is a picture of disbelief.


    I point to the garage door.


    ''We need to go to the hotel. Lionel needs to see the plan.''


    <hr>


    I cross the room to the suitcases, still sitting there, waiting to be taken home. I take out the first folder of notes. I put it into Lionel¡¯s hands. He stares at it.


    ¡®You¡¯re not joking¡­¡¯


    He flips through the timeline.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry you weren¡¯t included from the start. Jaq was so distressed and focused on your parents that¡­ he forgot to tell me he had a brother¡­ and then you were caught up in the lies.¡¯


    He looks up, his expression is unreadable. Hurt? Concern?


    He turns to Jaq.


    ¡®You¡¯re a fucking arsehole. I¡¯ve always been there for you. You could have fucking said something. Why the hell are they threatening you?¡¯


    Jaq remains silent, staring at the floor.


    ¡®Now you¡¯ve gone and hired yourself a nursemaid to clean up your bullshit ¨C you¡¯re too fucking lazy to even do it yourself.¡¯


    That wasn¡¯t nice. I don¡¯t feel so good.


    Lionel gently takes my hand.


    I¡¯m confused.


    ¡®Come on Jo. We¡¯re going out.¡¯


    Then louder, to Jaq;


    ¡®And I¡¯m not talking to you until you have the decency to apologise.¡¯


    Lionel pulls me to the door, and we walk to the elevator. Once inside, he hugs me tightly.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry about my brother. He¡¯s¡­ ugh. I¡¯m sorry he dragged you into this.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s okay¡­¡¯


    He squeezes me tighter and holds me all the way to the ground floor. I¡¯m not sure if he¡¯s trying to comfort me, or if I¡¯m supposed to be comforting him. I hug him back, in case I¡¯m being hugged to comfort him. I''m still not sure why we''re both leaving.


    The elevator bell sounds, and he releases me, straightening his coat.


    ¡®Where are we going?¡¯


    He grins at me.


    ¡®You¡¯ll see.¡¯


    <hr>


    When we climb out of the car, we¡¯re in a quieter part of the city ¨C tall buildings loom to block out the sky, fighting with the plane trees that line the road. We walk only a short distance before we¡¯re standing in a huge open space, dominated by a hulking, yellow¡­ thing.


    I walk over to it, and rest my hands on the brightly coloured metal surface. It¡¯s all angles and gaps. Bulk without substance.


    Lionel rests his arm on my shoulder.


    ¡®Ta-da!¡¯


    I look at the monstrosity before me, then back at Lionel.


    ¡®Thought you¡¯d like it.¡¯


    This was a famous work of art ¨C bought by the city and slammed by the media for being grossly expensive and incredibly ugly. They wound up removing it from its place of prominence in the heart of the city¡­ and I guess it was eventually dumped here. People didn¡¯t understand it then. I grin and crouch to remove my shoes. Once they''re off, I reach up to pull myself onto it. It¡¯s not an easy beast to climb, but I¡¯m determined.


    I understood it. I always understood it. Teeny tiny child me understood it. Maybe not the way it was intended¡­ but I understood it.


    It was fun.


    Lionel climbs up after me, an arm out to catch me if I fall. It''s a sweet gesture, but I''m pretty sure he''s more likely to slip than I am.


    Balancing carefully on the odd slopes, I make my way to the top of the sculpture and perch.


    ¡®How did you know I loved this stupid thing?¡¯


    ¡®It was a hunch. The way you talked about art and sets yesterday¡­ reminded me of this.¡¯


    ¡®I haven¡¯t seen this since I was a kid. I thought I saw in the paper that it had been destroyed.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®How exactly does one destroy¡­ ten thousand tonnes of ugly?¡¯


    I grin.


    ¡®Thank you for bringing me here.¡¯


    He smiles back.


    ¡®Thank you for telling me the truth.¡¯


    My mood darkens a little.


    ¡®¡­sorry. I didn¡¯t¡­¡¯


    ¡®Shush. You did what you had to. Now? Now you can do what you want.¡¯


    I look out across the open space ¨C so quiet and peaceful. It¡¯s a pity this thing wasn¡¯t somewhere more populous, where kids could run around under it and climb up the sides. I¡¯d love to build public sculptures like this. Maybe ones that were a little more agreeable to the general populace so they wouldn¡¯t get thrown in the proverbial closet and ignored. Things that would take pride of place in a playground or a park.


    ¡®I want to make stuff that people love.¡¯


    ¡®So do it.¡¯


    He makes it sound so easy.


    ¡®Anyway ¨C we¡¯ve got time to kill before Jackie calls me back. I¡¯m guessing at least another hour. We¡¯ll freeze sitting up here the entire time. Anything else you want to do?


    ¡®Actually, yeah. I have an errand I want to run.''


    ¡®Sure, lead the way.''


    We gracelessly dismount the sculpture, and I direct Lionel to the shopping center Jaq had taken me to, what felt like months ago. We ride the same escalator up to the top floor, Lionel fidgeting with his phone expectantly. I still have to thank the clerk from the boutique, and I don¡¯t know when I¡¯ll next have the chance. I hope she¡¯s working today. If not¡­ I guess I¡¯ll leave a message for her.


    I don¡¯t know her name.


    Maybe I¡¯ll just come back another time.


    I spot the curly Lucinda''s Solace sign and hurry over to check if she¡¯s there ¨C I hold back a triumphant fist pump, and walk in. She¡¯s busy re-hanging some blouses and doesn¡¯t notice my approach


    ¡®Hello! I was hoping you would be here!¡¯


    She whirls, surprised.


    ¡®Oh, hi! You¡¯re back already!¡¯


    I pull the magazine out of my handbag, and she looks apprehensive. I''m glad she knows she did something wrong.


    ¡®While I''d really prefer you hadn''t photographed us secretly... thank you so much for keeping my dress size to yourself.¡¯


    She laughs, and I hold out my arms.


    ¡®Can I give you a hug?¡¯


    ¡®Sure.¡¯


    I give her a quick squeeze, and when I let her go, she says;


    ¡®Actually, I have something for you¡­ just a sec.¡¯


    She dashes through a door marked ¡®Staff Only¡¯ and comes back with a small bag.


    ¡®This is from my boss, to thank you for the good press. It¡¯s from the new line.¡¯


    I look inside at some gorgeous floral fabric.


    ¡®Thank you! Now I¡¯m doubly indebted to you! You saved me from embarrassment, and you¡¯re giving me presents? You¡¯re an angel!¡¯


    I see Lionel hovering outside the doorway, phone to his ear, frowning.


    ¡®-ah, I¡¯m sorry to love and leave you, but it looks like the call that my poor future brother-in-law was waiting for might have finally arrived. I''ll be back soon though. I want to see those new designs.¡¯


    I tap his arm to let him know I¡¯m there. He glances at me and offers his elbow. I take it, and we walk together.


    ¡®¡­if you¡¯d have told me, I¡¯d have helped you.¡¯


    I hear Jaq¡¯s mumbles on the other end of the line. Lionel sighs


    ¡®It¡¯s fine¡­ I forgive you.¡¯


    The apology was awkward, probably made worse by me standing nearby.


    It was an apology, nonetheless.


    I feel relieved. With Lionel helping, there is far less pressure on my flimsy story and planted proof. He can corroborate details and dismiss his parents¡¯ doubts. He could help me work out how to make my tale more appealing¡­ appealing enough that Frances won¡¯t try to bully Jaq into leaving me.


    ''Mother seriously didn''t explain why? Did you ask Father?''


    Lionel''s face shifts from concerned to annoyed.


    ''Of course you should ask him.''


    He sighs heavily. I try to stop myself from staring at him by examining the windows of the stores we pass.


    I don''t understand most of modern fashion. I don''t get how flimsier fabric makes something so much more expensive. Nor do I get how items that are barely different from the things that can be found in a low-end department store can cost so much more just because they have a tiny label on them. I mean, I get the prestige of luxury brands, but why don''t consumers hold those brands to a higher standard? A basic crew neck tee is a basic crew neck tee. Add a unique print or some kind of embellishment. Convince me it''s worth that much more.


    Beside me, I hear a mumbled;


    ¡®Love you too bro.¡¯


    Lionel inhales deeply, and to me, he says;


    ¡®Ready to go back now, Jo?¡¯


    I make a face.


    ¡®No, but okay.¡¯


    He grins.


    The entire drive back is filled with questions;


    ¡®So, what¡¯s up with the greyhounds?¡¯


    ¡®Huh?¡¯


    ¡®I tried to talk to your Mum about them, but she shut me down.¡¯


    ¡®Hm. I dunno. I think she has them to annoy Father. He¡¯s allergic.¡¯


    ¡®Why do you both call them ¡®Mother¡¯ and ¡®Father¡¯? Is that a rich kid thing?¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®That¡¯s a them thing. They wanted us to speak all good like and use the right proper formal language.¡¯


    ¡®Hah, okay, so I¡¯m going to need to be more careful about the way I say shit in front of Mumsy.¡¯


    ¡®Faeces. The correct term is faeces. The word ¡®shit¡¯ is for commoners.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, shut up! You¡¯re lucky you¡¯re driving, or I¡¯d punch you.¡¯


    ¡®You? Punch me? With those tiny fists? Ha!¡¯


    I hold my fists up like a boxer, ready to strike. He chuckles.


    ¡®Answer me this, then; how did you really meet Jackie?¡¯


    I suppress a laugh.


    ¡®At the theatre we saw Streetcar at ¨C I was flirting with the bust of Shakespeare in the foyer as a joke. He saw it and asked me to meet him the following day to discuss a role.¡¯


    ¡®Really?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. He didn¡¯t even tell me his name. Just pointed to a caf¨¦ and said ¡®there.¡¯¡¯


    ¡®Wow, that¡¯s some pickup line.¡¯


    ¡®I know right? I nearly didn¡¯t go. I thought he might be a serial killer.¡¯


    Lionel laughs.


    ¡®Damn he¡¯s suave. Chicks dig serial killer vibes.¡¯


    ¡®My turn ¨C is your Dad ever sober?¡¯


    Lionel¡¯s face turned sombre.


    ¡®Sometimes. In the mornings. He¡¯s more serious. He listens better.¡¯


    ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    ¡®No, it¡¯s fine. You need to know this stuff, right?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    ¡®How about I show you the family photo albums.¡¯


    ¡®That would actually really help.¡¯


    His face remains downcast. I don¡¯t like it.


    ¡®I¡¯ll get to see your dorky teen years. I bet you had the worst possible punk phase with all the overpriced pre-ripped jeans and brand new band shirts.¡¯


    ¡®Shut up.¡¯


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡®The kind of rich poseur punk that real punks shun.¡¯


    ¡®Shut up!¡¯


    ¡®Did you do your hair in a faux hawk? All perfect and neat? Bet your parents wouldn¡¯t have allowed anything more extreme than that.¡¯


    ¡®Shut up or I¡¯ll crash the car!¡¯


    He¡¯s laughing.


    ¡®I¡¯m right aren¡¯t I? Shit, we can¡¯t be friends anymore. I would have been one of the real punks shunning you.¡¯


    He glances over.


    ¡®Oh, and you had a real mohawk?¡¯


    ¡®So tall I couldn¡¯t sit straight in a car. Had to lean my head to the side. Seriously hurt my neck. Way better to take the bus with my hair like that.¡¯


    He laughs harder.


    ¡®It was green too. A good pine forest green. Except when it was blue and purple. Then I looked like a punk mermaid.¡¯


    ¡®Okay, now I need to see that.¡¯


    We arrive at the hotel and Jaq climbs into the car with us. He¡¯s quieter than usual. I feel like I¡¯m in the way. I want to come up with funny things to say to cheer them both up, but it''s a struggle. It''s not easy to joke around with Jaq.


    Scratch that, I¡¯m struggling to come up with anything to say.


    I want to ask why they¡¯re both still living at home.


    I want to ask if they¡¯re okay.


    I want to ask how it got to be this way between them.


    None of these questions help anyone.


    I keep them in.


    <hr>


    The three of us return to the house ¨C Jaq plays his violin in the corner of the sitting room while Lionel and I leaf through old photo albums. I see the two of them as tiny children, standing proudly in their school uniforms. It¡¯s their first day of school together ¨C surprisingly, Jaq is the older of the two. He looks so surly. I see the family, posed in a garden, a perfect picnic laid out nearby. The picnic is probably little more than a prop. I see Jaq smiling, holding a first-place ribbon up for the camera. As I progress through the album, I see fewer photos of Lionel. I see Jaq¡¯s face shift from the genuine smile of a child, to the plastered-on, fake smile of an adult who would rather not be there. I don¡¯t see any photos that are un-posed, or unplanned. Every single one looks professionally shot.


    ¡®Where are the real photos?¡¯


    ¡®What do you mean?¡¯


    ¡®These are all posed.¡¯


    ¡®And that makes them fake?¡¯


    I scowl at him.


    ¡®Yeah. There¡¯s nothing spontaneous about any of these.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s a family album. They¡¯re supposed to be posed.¡¯


    ¡®Do you have your own albums where you keep photos of genuinely happy times, taken while those happy times are happening?¡¯


    ¡®¡­no.¡¯


    This is so wrong.


    ¡®That¡¯s no way to spend a day!¡¯


    Isaac¡¯s booming voice startles the two of us.


    ¡®What are you doing looking at boring old photos? You¡¯re liable to get sentimental.¡¯


    He¡¯s alone this time. I may be able to grill him covertly.


    ¡®I want to get to know the family better-¡®


    ¡®Then throw that in the fire.¡¯


    He waves dismissively at the album. I close it.


    ¡®Okay, so tell me about yourself, yourself.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®What is there to tell? I was born, went to school, got a job, ran a company, married my wife, had two sons¡­¡¯


    Unhelpful.


    ¡®I could get all of that from a Wikipedia page.¡¯


    ¡®Well, it¡¯s true.¡¯


    ¡®Why don¡¯t we play cards?


    His face splits ear-to-ear with his grin. There¡¯s a glimmer of something that wasn¡¯t there before.


    Lionel groans beside me.


    ¡®He cheats.¡¯


    I whisper ¡®That¡¯s fine. So do I.¡¯


    Isaac finds a deck, and we clear the coffee table. Lionel sits to one side. He refuses to play.


    ¡®So then, what are we playing?¡¯


    I smile, feeling very clever, as I start to sort the deck.


    ¡®Goofspiel.¡¯


    Isaac furrows his brow.


    ¡®Haven¡¯t played it before? It¡¯s also known as the game of pure strategy.¡¯


    As I explain the rules, Isaac¡¯s face grows serious.


    ¡®It¡¯s all bluffing?¡¯


    ¡®Bluffing and strategy.¡¯


    I hand him the suit of clubs, keeping spades for myself.


    ¡®Chance is overrated. This way, I get to see how you think.¡¯


    He smiles.


    ¡®That¡¯s very bold.¡¯


    I¡¯m not playing to win per se. I¡¯m playing to see how he plays. I only need to play well enough that I put him in situations where he has to make difficult decisions. I wouldn¡¯t see it this clearly if we were playing poker ¨C not unless we played a hundred times. I hate poker. That much poker would put me into a permanent coma.


    I want to know if he''s a risk taker, if he plans meticulously, or relies on bluffing. I want to know if he plays for the win at all costs, as Lionel''s comment on cheating suggested, or if he''s gentle with guests. There are so many deep and hidden things games can reveal about a person. Things that help me more than ''I was born, went to school¡­''


    After a few games, I spot a pattern in his plays. I¡¯m not sure if he¡¯s doing it deliberately. He could be baiting me, or trying to let me win. I could exploit the pattern to win the next game with ease, but that wouldn¡¯t be an impressive outcome. He would go away feeling good about flattering my ego, thinking highly of himself¡­ or he might just be grumpy about it if he¡¯s a sore loser. Cheaters often are sore losers, so I''d rather not.


    The alternative¡­


    He turns over the first diamond. I place my bid.


    ¡®draw.¡¯


    I turn over the next. We place our bids.


    ¡®draw.¡¯


    We continue through the suit. He could shift his strategy if he wanted to win ¨C but he doesn¡¯t.


    Isaac beams.


    ¡®I can see why Jaques likes you.¡¯


    He pats my shoulder.


    ¡®We¡¯ll have to play again. A different game though.¡¯


    ¡®Maybe Mao?¡¯


    Nope. Shouldn''t have said that. That was way too heavy-handed. He''s going to think I''m some kind of tiresome, bumptious, egotistical upstart. Know when to stop, Jo!


    He laughs


    ¡®Maybe we can teach these two to play?¡¯


    I laugh back, relieved ¨C he didn¡¯t hate it. This isn¡¯t ruined.


    Once he¡¯s gone, Lionel whispers to me.


    ¡®What the hell was that?¡¯


    ¡®He played badly, deliberately, so I would win. I called his bluff and played for the draw.¡¯


    ¡®Bullshit. He never let us win.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re his sons. You¡¯re supposed to be able to win on your own. I¡¯m not, so the rules are different. He was acting as a traditional gentleman.¡¯


    Lionel looks horrified.


    ¡®It¡¯s gentlemanly to cheat to win with your sons, but deliberately lose to women?''


    ¡®Not just women. Guests of the right social standing that aren''t close friends, any people you need to show deference to, people you may feel indebted to - it''s complicated enough that one''s intentions can be misinterpreted pretty badly, though. Don¡¯t blame me for how silly it is, I didn¡¯t make the rules. Some ponce in puffy pants and a stupid hat a few hundred years ago did. And, technically, my calling his bluff could have been interpreted as rude. Someone in my position is generally expected to play dumb and let my host coddle me to victory. The rules aren¡¯t meant to be fair or fun, they¡¯re supposed to let you save face and maintain the status-quo.¡¯


    ¡®How do you know any of this?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a theatre nerd. If I didn¡¯t understand the technicalities of honour and saving face, then it would be a stain on my reputation. So many old plays are entirely about that.¡¯


    Behind us, Jaq continues to play.


    I¡¯ve won over Isaac ¨C but he was never the problem. It was always going to be Frances. Frances the goat-horned devil. I frown.


    ¡®Are there older family albums?¡¯


    ¡®Like our parents¡¯ wedding and stuff? Yeah.¡¯


    Lionel shows me the cupboard where the aging leather tomes sit. I pick out one and gently lay it on the table. Frances¡¯ childhood rests under my fingertips. I know it won¡¯t be all fire and brimstone¡­ but¡­


    I open it.


    Frances was a cute child. Here she¡¯s dressed in a gorgeous frilly smock, dragging around a threadbare stuffed monkey. There she is, looking guilty, standing by a mural she¡¯d painted on the wall with her fingers. Here she is rolling in the grass with a dog. There I see her grinning face just barely visible over a grand piano. I don¡¯t see any siblings ¨C it¡¯s all her and her parents. They seem like a lovely family. The photos don¡¯t tell me how she became the person she is now. She even looks genuinely happy in her wedding photos, stepping down from a horse-drawn carriage, her eyes locked with young Isaac¡¯s, both so sincere, so full of affection.


    Photos like this are taken to commemorate the happy moments, they don¡¯t show hurt and hardship. Looking at her sitting with young Isaac by a pool, sharing a fruity drink, I see not even the slightest hint of malice¡­ and I shouldn¡¯t expect to. If it were there, the photo wouldn¡¯t have made it into the album.


    Perhaps that¡¯s why the photos after Jaq¡¯s birth are all staged?


    What happened?


    I close the album, and return it to the shelf.


    If I want to impress Frances, I need to know¡­ (I sigh, inwardly disappointed in myself for resorting to French) ¨C her raison d''¨ºtre. Whatever it is, it¡¯s not going to be as easy as playing Goofspiel.


    Somewhere between Lionel, Jaq, and Isaac, there are answers. I just don¡¯t think any of them know how to tell me.


    It¡¯s obvious she cares about appearances ¨C the staged photos feel more like her doing than Isaac¡¯s.


    She clearly values having something that is entirely her own ¨C Isaac can¡¯t participate in her greyhound racing hobby because of his allergies. It''s a perfect excuse to exclude her husband whenever she wants to go out alone, she would just have to say she was on her way to check on the dogs.


    I watch Jaq ¨C when he plays he sways with the music, his face mirroring the mood of the piece. He looks more alive with the violin in his hands than I¡¯ve ever seen him while doing anything else. I wonder if he was always this drawn to music, or if something happened that made him need the music as an escape.


    I wonder if Frances has something that makes her feel alive.


    What happened to him? What happened to them?


    The music cannot answer.


    <hr>


    I return from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches to share, and, for the second time in a very short time, pause outside a doorway. Jaq isn¡¯t playing. I can hear Frances¡¯ voice, harsh but low as she berates Jaq¡¯s performance.


    ¡®¡­getting this lazy¡­ terrible¡­ disappointment¡­¡¯


    I hesitate, uncertain. Do I interrupt?


    Lionel¡¯s hand rests on my shoulder. I look up at him, and he gently shakes his head, indicating that I should follow him away. I consider for a moment ¨C it¡¯s damn tempting. This doesn¡¯t seem like something I should see.


    Against my better judgment, I open the door.


    I have to start getting through to her somehow.


    ¡®Hey gorgeous, you¡¯ve been working so hard, I brought you some lunch. Oh, hi Frances!¡¯


    I put the plate down on the table. Jaq stands stock still, pale and sweating. His eyes are on his feet. Frances looks like she¡¯s on the verge of violence.


    I walk over to Jaq, and with hands firmly on both shoulders, I guide him to the table and push him into the seat. Resolutely ignoring Frances, I hold his hand and quietly talk to him, working through a calming exercise.


    ¡®I¡¯ve got your hand. Focus on my hand in yours.¡¯


    I give it a squeeze.


    ¡®You¡¯re here with me, and we¡¯re both okay.¡¯


    Frances approaches, but I glare at her and shoo her away with my free hand. She sputters in shock.


    ¡®Can you feel your feet in your shoes? Wiggle your toes. Move your feet. See how soft the carpet is under your shoes?¡¯


    He moves his feet ¨C I can see he¡¯s breathing better.


    ¡®Can you feel the cushion beneath you, supporting you? Lean back, and let the chair hold you.¡¯


    He leans back, his shoulders relaxing a little. He¡¯s not all the way out of the woods, but he¡¯s doing much better. I place a sandwich into the hand I¡¯m holding.


    ¡®Now, let¡¯s eat lunch. Your body takes care of you. You should take care of it.¡¯


    Frances silently stalks out of the room.


    Once she¡¯s gone, Lionel peers in, dumbfounded.


    ¡®Nerves of steel, woman.¡¯


    My hands are shaking. I keep them hidden under the table.


    As Jaq finishes his sandwich, his phone buzzes. It¡¯s a dinner invitation from Isaac ¨C this time at the house. I¡¯m invited.


    I should celebrate ¨C if Isaac likes me enough to try dinner again after the last one¡­ but I can¡¯t celebrate.


    I just threw my gloves at Frances¡¯ feet. She won''t be satisfied fighting to first blood. It''ll be ¨¤ l''outrance. To the death.


    ¡®I¡¯m going to Charles¡¯ house. I don¡¯t want¡­ Mother¡­ to keep...¡¯


    Jaq stumbles into silence. I nod.


    ¡®That¡¯s probably a good idea.¡¯


    He looks at me expectantly. I realise he wants me to go with him.


    ¡®Ah. No. I¡¯m not going near Pitch. He scares me.¡¯


    Jaq looks confused.


    ¡®He keeps saying really weird, creepy shit to me.¡¯


    ¡®He says weird stuff to everyone¡­¡¯


    ¡®I''m sure he does, but I still don¡¯t want to be in his house. He genuinely frightens me.¡¯


    Jaq¡¯s baffled look hurts, somewhere deep in my psyche. I¡¯m not entirely sure why. I¡¯m used to people being confused by ¨C even laughing at ¨C my unending paranoia about predators. I¡¯ve been purposefully left out of get-togethers because I was vocal about my dislike of certain people. My first official friend ¡®breakup¡¯ was over something like this. I took that in stride. So why does Jaq¡¯s disbelief hurt so much?


    It might be because he creeped me out at first, too. Though I think it was less being ''creeped out'' then, and more genuine worry that he was an axe murderer.


    ¡­maybe it¡¯s because I trust him?


    Do I?


    ¡®Show him the photo you sent me.¡¯


    I forgot Lionel was there. I find the photo on my phone and show Jaq. There¡¯s Charles Pitch, with his suggestive lean, arm outstretched, his pelvis angled towards the camera. Jaq in the foreground, oblivious.


    Jaq looks nonplussed. I don¡¯t know how to make it clearer for him. I could try quoting what Pitch said to me¡­ but I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll get through. Jaq wasn¡¯t there to hear it. It won¡¯t have the same impact.


    I have to try.


    ¡®He¡¯s said, more than once, that I¡¯ll get bored of you, and I¡¯ll go to him.¡¯


    ¡®So? He makes stupid jokes all the time.¡¯


    ¡®That joke is incredibly cruel-¡®


    Jaq throws his hands up in disgust and leaves.


    ¡®Jackie!¡¯


    Lionel¡¯s call falls on deaf ears.


    ¡®I fucked that up.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not your fault. He¡¯s bad at people. Come on. Let¡¯s go play video games.¡¯


    <hr>


    Lionel¡¯s room is messy. The kind of messy that tells me he¡¯s banned house cleaners from entering. A pile of unfolded laundry sits in one corner, overflowing its meagre basket. The wastepaper bin is full to the brim with empty cans and bottles. His bed is unmade ¨C just a mess of tangled sheets and blankets. Posters line the walls and stickers mar the surface of the expensive wooden wardrobe. His desk is lost under a pile of plastic video game cases. I¡¯m surprised to note that, despite the mess, the room smells fine. Unlike some of my housemates¡­


    I look around again. I don¡¯t see any empty plates or cups ¨C no food remnants ¨C and the laundry pile looks like clean laundry on second inspection. The room is a mess, but it¡¯s a clean mess. What planet is this man from?


    He flops down into a beanbag. An honest to Zeus beanbag. I haven''t seen one of those since I was at uni, and I''m pretty sure those were there ironically.


    ¡®Make yourself at home.¡¯ He gestures grandly to the room. I find a stray cushion and sit on it.


    ¡®Game preferences?¡¯


    I marvel at the nest of wires that extends from the bottom of the television mounted on the wall. Inside the nest, little red lights glare like tiny malevolent eyes. I resist the urge to start untangling the wires. It''s as though I have the ghosts of a pair of theatre techs on either shoulder - one has exploded in rage, while the other has dissolved into fits of sobbing.


    I¡¯m not much of a gamer. I never really had the opportunity to be. When smartphones became the affordable standard, I poked around the games store like anyone else ¨C but I was intimidated by the microtransactions and constant advertising. The last time I actually played a game was when I was a kid, visiting a friend¡¯s house.


    ¡®You¡¯re going to laugh at me.¡¯


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®Cross my heart.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know anything about video games.¡¯


    He snickers.


    ¡®You said you wouldn¡¯t laugh!¡¯


    He hides his lying mouth with one arm as he searches around among the scattered game accessories on the floor.


    ¡®I¡¯m not laughing at you! I swear! I¡¯m¡­ laughing for you!¡¯


    ¡®Sure.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ve been missing out!¡¯


    A controller is thrust into my hands.


    ¡­and then Lionel¡¯s phone rings.


    ¡®Sorry¡­¡¯


    He steps out of his own room and takes the call in the hallway. He doesn¡¯t even close the door. I feel awkward. Unless I plug my ears and sing, I won¡¯t be able to avoid eavesdropping.


    ¡®Hi¡­ oh? Sure. Um.¡¯


    I see his elbow moving just past the doorframe.


    ¡®No, I don¡¯t see why not. ¡­haha, that¡¯s okay.¡¯


    He steps back into view.


    ¡®Okay, bye.¡¯


    I raise an eyebrow at him.


    ¡®You remember Sophie from the party?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, she seemed nice.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®She called to ask if I had any spare tickets for Jaq¡¯s concert.¡¯


    I should also ask about that. It would be weird if I weren¡¯t there. I can¡¯t really ask Jaq now though.


    ¡®Do me a favour, and don¡¯t tell her I lent you her clothes.¡¯


    Oho. I grin mischievously.


    ¡®If you hadn¡¯t said anything, I wouldn¡¯t have known she was your ex. Specifically that ex. At this point, whatever happens is your fault.¡¯


    ¡®What? No! Please!¡¯


    I look down my nose at him, smugly.


    ¡®I¡¯ll consider your request¡­ but there will be conditions.¡¯


    ¡®¡­okay.¡¯


    ¡®Firstly, I get to sit on the bean bag. You can have the cushion.¡¯


    <hr>


    I check up on Jaq periodically.


    <blockquote>


    Hey, are you okay?


    I¡¯m sorry


    I didn¡¯t mean to upset you.


    I¡¯m not mad at you. I want you to spend time with your friends.


    </blockquote>


    Of course, he¡¯s not replying to my approximately hourly texts. I stop after the fourth, before it turns into a wall of increasingly desperate nonsense. I¡¯m worried¡­ but Lionel isn¡¯t. I¡¯m choosing to defer to his experience in this case. He knows Jaq better than I do.


    I hear Jaq stomp down the hall shortly before dinner. I send him a message asking if he wants to play video games with us. Still no reply. I want to go to him and talk it out¡­ but Lionel stops me.


    ¡®It¡¯s better to let him come to you. If you initiate, he¡¯ll just get defensive and make things worse.¡¯


    I sigh, defeated.


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t come down.


    Dinnertime approaches.


    Will Jaq even go to dinner? He might just sulk through the entire thing.


    I feel knots forming in my stomach.


    Fifteen minutes until dinner. Time to take my pre-emptive diazepam.


    This time, I¡¯m prepared to face Frances. I have allies. I have medication.


    Or, I would be prepared, if it weren¡¯t for the uncertainty introduced by Jaq¡¯s currently unknown emotional state.


    This sucks.


    I try to avoid drawing attention as I take the pill bottle from my bag, gently open the lid, tip one out, gulp it down with a sip of water¡­ But a pill bottle is never truly silent.


    ¡®What¡¯s that?¡¯


    ¡®Prescription medication. I, like your brother, have anxiety issues. As much as I try to avoid taking these¡­ hopefully one will get me through dinner.¡¯


    Lionel looks concerned.


    ¡®Is that why you had that¡­ meditation script memorised?¡¯


    ¡®Memorised? No, I just sort of made that up. You work through enough mindfulness exercises and the formula becomes second nature. I¡¯ve had to go through them with plenty of actors terrified on opening night too. It¡¯s not much¡­ but sometimes it¡¯s enough to get you functional. Then, usually, adrenaline and habit take over.¡¯


    ¡®And that wouldn¡¯t work for dinner?¡¯


    I shake my head. I hate having to explain my mental health precautions and solutions to people. I feel weak and useless enough already without someone asking questions like this as if it never would have occurred to me.


    ¡®I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be able to shut my eyes and wiggle my toes at dinner. Frances isn¡¯t going to politely wait for me to settle my nerves before she resumes shouting or making cruel comments. She¡¯d probably just see it as an opportunity to get more shouting in. And Jaq¡­¡¯


    I trail off.


    ¡®He hasn¡¯t replied to you, has he?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    ¡®Idiot brother of mine.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s part of why I¡¯m taking the pill pre-emptively. I know this dinner is going to set me off. It¡¯s better if the pill is in effect before I get in there. It¡¯ll prevent the panic.¡¯


    He nods, sadly.


    <hr>


    At the door to the dining room, I stop and take a few deep breaths. I¡¯m supposed to be angry with Frances for upsetting Jaq, not terrified of her. I¡¯m supposed to be in a wonderful relationship with Jaq. We¡¯re supposed to be deeply in love.


    If he¡¯s angry enough with me¡­ he might confess. If he confesses to this fraudulent act¡­ I guess I will be spending some time in a cage.


    Shut up.


    I open the door to complete silence. Isaac and Frances are already there, waiting by their seats. Isaac¡¯s wine glass is full. Jaq¡­ he¡¯s at the window, with his back to everyone. His posture is stiff and unnatural, sort of like a scarecrow. Far too straight, shoulders too set. I enter and stand by the foot of the table, waiting to see where I¡¯m to be seated. Lionel follows, getting in the way of the server delivering the food. I feel guilty that I¡¯m not helping carry the dishes.


    Isaac clears his throat and Jaq moves to a seat near the head of the table ¨C Lionel moves to the opposite side and to the left of Frances, leaving only one setting available to me. At least I won¡¯t be sitting directly across from Frances.


    ¡­She won¡¯t meet my eye.


    Is she so enraged she won¡¯t look at me? Or¡­ is it shame?


    There¡¯s no use in speculating.


    We take our seats. I feel like I¡¯m marching onto a battlefield with incomplete intelligence. I have no idea what I¡¯m about to face. Is Frances a hydra, ready to come at me twice as strong after the last skirmish? Is Jaq an embodiment of Ephialtes, ready to betray me to the Persians? (Or some sort of hydra spawn?)


    I doubt that Heracles would count shooing his fake future mother-in-law away on the same level as cutting off a monster¡¯s head¡­ but it felt like that to me.


    ¡­and I still don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening with Jaq.


    Stop it.


    Isaac asks Jaq how he¡¯s feeling about the upcoming concert ¨C Jaq offers a noncommittal response.


    Finally, I catch Frances¡¯ eye. She falters and looks away.


    I did wound her.


    My nerves are replaced with a swelling sense of confidence ¨C I must restrain it. Overconfidence invites error. I can¡¯t afford errors here.


    ¡®And what about you, Lionel? What have you been doing?¡¯


    He looks uncomfortable.


    ¡®Keeping out of trouble, mostly¡­¡¯


    Frances shoots him a look.


    ¡®Busy amounting to nothing.¡¯


    I grit my teeth.


    A flush of indignant rage colours Lionel¡¯s face.


    ¡®Let him speak for himself, dear.¡¯


    Isaac holds Lionel¡¯s eye.


    ¡®¡­I¡­ went to the theatre¡­¡¯


    Now Jaq looks aggrieved.


    Why? I asked him to come with us.


    ¡®What did you see? How was it?¡¯


    ¡®It was¡­ well performed. An amateur troupe¡­¡¯


    Isaac smiles easily, as though he doesn¡¯t notice the tension.


    ¡®Getting ideas about auditioning?¡¯


    Now the indignation erupts into embarrassment;


    ¡®What? No.¡¯


    I can barely breathe. The conversation is dragging us over tenterhooks, just waiting for something to catch. For something to tear.


    I can¡¯t let it continue.


    ¡®How about you, Isaac? What have you been up to?¡¯ ¨C My tone is calm and confident. As confident as I felt when Frances wouldn¡¯t hold my gaze. I cling to the disintegrating shreds of that feeling.


    He smiles, pleased with something.


    ¡®Oh, I¡¯ve been busy causing trouble.¡¯


    He leans closer, and mock whispers;


    ¡®Don¡¯t tell Frances, but I¡¯ve been organising a little get-together for her birthday.¡¯


    She shakes her head, irritated.


    ¡®I told you not to.¡¯


    ¡®Why not, dear? You don¡¯t see your friends anywhere near often enough.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t want to see them!¡¯


    Huh?


    Speaking now feels like a rude intrusion, and a massive risk¡­ but I need to be on the offensive.


    ¡®What if they want to see you?¡¯


    She fixes me with a stare ¨C not angry. Just cold. I press the advantage.


    ¡®I¡¯m always sad when I find out a friend of mine celebrated their birthday alone. They might say they didn¡¯t want to organise a party¡­ but that doesn¡¯t change how I feel. Sometimes it¡¯s nice to let the people who love us express gratitude for our existence. There doesn¡¯t need to be a big party or wild event. Just friends.¡¯


    There¡¯s the faintest flicker of¡­ something.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want it.¡¯


    Is she afraid that no one will come? I watch her face. She breaks my gaze.


    She is.


    Why?


    She places her napkin on the table and stands. To no one in particular she announces;


    ¡®I¡¯m not feeling well.¡¯


    And with that, she leaves.


    That¡¯s my move! Thief!


    We watch her in silence as she closes the door behind her.


    I turn to Isaac.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t mean to upset her.¡¯


    He smiles.


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about it.¡¯


    He drains his glass.


    ¡®I think I may follow her example though ¨C early to bed for me. Even the wicked need their rest.¡¯


    The three of us sit quietly, now alone in the dining room. I exhale the breath I had been holding.


    Lionel has me by the shoulders, and shakes me;


    ¡®What the hell was that?¡¯


    It wasn''t much of a hydra battle. I switch metaphors. The hydra one wasn''t really cutting it.


    ¡®Perseus, slaying the gorgon.¡¯


    ¡®What the hell is that?¡¯


    Jaq stares at me in disbelief, zero animosity on his face.


    I grin.


    ''I take it you''re not well versed in the Greek epics. I assumed you would be, you didn''t go to public school. Or, has private education dropped the emphasis on classics?''

 7. Break In

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Wednesday</h2>


    I spend another night in the guest room, glad to have a bed to myself. The morning is met with hot coffee and a shower. Dressed in the yet-to-be-released Lucinda''s Solace blouse, I feel like a triumphant general, returning with the spoils of war. I can hear Jaq¡¯s violin, like a chorus singing praise to my brilliance.


    I thought he didn¡¯t want to practice here?


    I check my phone and find a message from Casey. Our house was robbed last night.


    I deflate.


    I walk stiffly to the practice room. Lionel finds me on my way there.


    ¡®You okay?¡¯


    ¡®I need to go home.¡¯


    ¡®Sure, I¡¯ll drive you to the hotel.¡¯


    ¡®No ¨C home-home.¡¯


    Neither of them had been there before. I didn¡¯t trust them before. Now¡­


    I don¡¯t know why I feel so uneasy ¨C I don¡¯t have much worth stealing. My room is full of old sketchbooks, shoddy sculptures, and folders of notes. That junk is only precious to me.


    The money in the sewing box¡­


    I¡¯d almost forgotten it. It seems so insignificant now. Compared with all the lavish gifts I¡¯d been given just so I¡¯d fit the part of Jaq¡¯s fianc¨¦e, that money was pocket change.


    It really was pocket change. He gave it to me so casually. It¡¯s taken this long to sink in.


    I''m not sure I feel good about this change in my perspective.


    Lionel and Jaq accompany me to the house. They try to cheer me up ¨C I try to play along. There¡¯s a cannonball in my guts, heavy and cold. I can¡¯t ignore it.


    The front door is open, the frame splintered so it can¡¯t be shut again. I can see everyone is in the living room. Casey runs to hug me as soon as my shadow darkens the doorway. She¡¯s been crying.


    ¡®What happened? Is everyone okay? What was taken?¡¯


    Laurie turns his tired face toward me


    ¡®We¡¯re fine, but the rent money¡­¡¯


    Our landlord takes payment in cash only. It means we¡¯re forced to keep the cash in the house, ready for whenever he feels like dropping by. It was in a biscuit tin in the pantry.


    ¡®Some electronics.¡¯


    Easily replaced.


    ¡®Chloe¡¯s laptop.¡¯


    ...all her work¡­


    I feel like I float to my room, detached from reality ¨C well, the wreckage of my room. My drawers had been rifled through ¨C the clothes I didn''t bring to the hotel lay scattered on the ground. Sketchbooks sit open on the floor, trampled. The boxes of old sculptures that had been carefully stored under my bed were upended, their contents kicked aside ¨C worthless to the thief. Broken pottery shards crunch beneath my feet.


    The sewing box is untouched. Why would a thief bother with something so small and trifling?


    I feel cold and hollow. A bubble in ice. All the evidence that I ever lived is less than debris. The hours of labour. The emotion. Everything I breathed into these artifacts of my existence now disregarded as¡­ chaff. Not even worth stealing.


    Sure, I probably should have tossed a lot of it out years ago - I had even been working up the nerve to cull the sculpture collection. Just keep the things that I was proud of or the things with deeper meaning. Now, the choice of what to toss has been taken from me. I can only really keep what little might be left intact.


    If I try to be positive, I suppose this gives me the opportunity to start over. Make new mementoes. Of course, I''ll never be able to replace my first clay sculpture from primary school. I''ll never have the same silly little two-room doll house I built in shop class, the one that made me fall in love with carpentry. I''ll never be able to replace my final submitted piece from uni - though that last one might be a blessing. Looking at that thing made me cry.


    Right now, my tear ducts are full of ash. I can''t even cry for my losses.


    I take the sewing box out into the living room.


    Nobody looks up.


    ¡®It¡¯s not enough¡­ but, here¡¯s my share of the lost rent, and enough to cover one other share.¡¯


    I take out the money and put it on the table. We all stare at it in silence.


    Jaq clears his throat.


    ¡®How much¡­ was the rest?¡¯


    I tell him. He pulls out his wallet and places the remainder of the money on the table.


    We all stare at him.


    ¡®Please don¡¯t stare¡­¡¯ he mumbles. Casey launches herself across the room and hugs him tight.


    ¡®Thank you thank you thank you!¡¯


    I can see him turning red, but I feel too numb to do anything. I see Lionel look in the door of my room ¨C he retreats quickly, as though scalded.


    I stare into my hands. There are no solutions there.


    I¡¯m sinking.


    Perhaps it¡¯s for the best.


    The only value I¡¯ve contributed to the world is in numbers on other people¡¯s spreadsheets.


    It¡¯s not enough.


    I don¡¯t hear her approach until she calls out;


    ¡®Yoo-hoo!¡¯


    An elderly neighbour, all smiles and friendliness, fills the door to the lounge. She lives a few houses down in a little block of flats. She¡¯s holding a cardboard box.


    ¡®Sorry to barge in¡­¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®Welcome any time, Nona.¡¯ My voice is flat. The response is automatic. This interaction has been well rehearsed.


    ¡®I found some things in the wrong bin. You know how nobody seems to understand how recycling works? Always the pizza boxes and plastic bags. I was going through it to make sure it was right¡­ and Ethel told me you¡¯d been broken into, so I thought, maybe these things were yours?¡¯


    There was the laptop, now cracked across the entire casing ¨C a phone, our small TV.


    What?


    This box poses a problem I can¡¯t comprehend.


    Why would someone break in just to dump the stuff they stole in the garbage a few houses down? Did they get spooked, or¡­?


    My blood runs cold as I return to my room ¨C I hurl clothes and sketchbooks over my shoulder, searching.


    My records.


    I had a green two-ring binder ¨C graduation certificates, tax returns, enrolment records, resumes, termination notices, medical records. It¡¯s gone.


    This mess was made to hide what was really stolen.


    Casey comes to the door, holding some of the crumpled sketchbooks that made their way into the hall.


    ¡®What¡¯s wrong?¡¯


    ¡®Are you missing anything else? Stuff that would be useful if someone wanted to steal your identity?¡¯


    I can feel the hardness of my tone more than hear it. She puts the notebooks down on my chair and runs back to her room as though I¡¯d hit her. I continue my search. After a few minutes, she returns;


    ¡®I don¡¯t think so ¨C all my important paperwork is still there.¡¯


    ¡®What about the others?¡¯


    After about half an hour, I¡¯m the only one with records missing. I feel sick. I want to burn the rest of the house down.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Why me?


    Jaq stands awkwardly nearby.


    Why me.


    Was it retaliation? For what though?


    Could it have been Frances trying to intimidate me? Surely not.


    Paparazzi? Am I really that interesting? I can''t be. I''m nobody. And, they didn''t know my name.


    Maybe they do now.


    I feel like the ground is whirling away beneath me. I shut my eyes. It doesn¡¯t make sense. I hear a thundering noise, getting louder and louder. I cover my ears, but I can¡¯t block it out.


    A touch on my shoulder.


    ¡®Come on. Let¡¯s get out of here.¡¯


    Lionel¡¯s voice breaks through the sound like it isn¡¯t there. He pulls me to my feet and we walk out of the house. I see Jaq on the phone.


    ¡®What¡­?¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s talking to a lawyer on your behalf. Working out what we need to do.¡¯


    I stare, not really comprehending. He sits me in the car.


    ¡®We¡¯re going for a drive. Somewhere happy.¡¯


    ¡®But, Jaq¡­¡¯


    ¡®A car is coming for him.¡¯


    Lionel gets in the driver¡¯s seat, and we leave.


    <hr>


    We sit on a pier, expensive ice cream cones in our hands. I watch seagulls glide and circle, hoping a fisherman will throw them something disgusting to eat. The sea undulates frantically, slapping against the concrete pilings. The cold wind and sickly-sweet dessert drag me back down to the earth like heavy iron chains. Extremes of physical sensation. I instinctively reach for my wrist ¨C for rubber bands that aren¡¯t there anymore. I haven¡¯t needed them for years. I haven¡¯t needed sensory extremes like pain and cold for so long. I forgot to take my panic medication.


    I was in too much of a panic to take my panic meds.


    I feel the corners of my mouth turn up, involuntarily. I don¡¯t know how to tell them not to anymore.


    ¡®Oh, now you¡¯re smiling. What¡¯s up?¡¯


    ¡®it¡¯s nothing. Just¡­ a silly thing.¡¯


    I hear footsteps. Jaq is walking down the pier toward us. He sits beside me.


    ¡®You okay?¡¯


    I nod.


    ¡®I think so.¡¯


    ¡®There¡¯s not a lot that can be done about identity theft. Close accounts ¨C alert police. The police have been alerted.¡¯


    I nod again.


    ¡®My lawyer didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be wise if he represented both of us, just in case¡­ something happens between us. But he recommended someone. So, I got you your own lawyer. You¡¯ll need to sign some things, but after that, she¡¯ll look after anything that comes up.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    He smiles and pats my shoulder, reassuringly.


    I feel guilty for ever comparing him to the traitor Ephialtes. He¡¯s taking care of me.


    ¡®Ready to go back to the hotel?¡¯ says Lionel.


    ¡®¡­sure.¡¯


    I get to my feet, a little wobbly. The cold concrete hadn¡¯t been kind to my joints.


    The two of them support me back to Lionel¡¯s car. We all pile in.


    I arrive at the hotel room and discover it''s filled with boxes.


    ¡®What¡¯s all this?¡¯


    Jaq looks a little guilty


    ¡®I had all your things moved here. That house wasn¡¯t safe.¡¯


    My eyes burn. Hot tears spill down my face. I sit heavily on the carpet, and sob. Both brothers watch awkwardly, unsure what to do. Lionel kneels beside me, holds me to his chest, chin resting atop my head.


    ¡®It¡¯s okay. It¡¯s okay. It¡¯s gonna be okay.¡¯


    <h2 style="text-align: center">Thursday</h2>


    I spent the rest of the day sleeping, missing dinner completely. When I wake up, the sun shines aggressively through the hotel window. The room smells more like home now. All my old clothes, dusty books, and art supplies, though still in boxes, fill the space with their own distinct odour. My eyes are crusted with dried tears.


    Even after showering, my face is puffy. I sit wrapped in my own dressing gown, knees pinned between my chest and the hotel table, sipping from my favourite mug. It¡¯s yellow, with black spots like a yellow ladybird. I bought it years ago thinking it was silly and cute.


    It feels strange to be here, in a hotel, with all my belongings. I feel like an alien.


    Jaq lets himself in, bearing an offering of fresh, hot doughnuts.


    ¡®Breakfast of champions,¡¯ I declare, my voice flat.


    He sits at the table with me, silent at first.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    ¡®For what?¡¯


    ¡®¡­I didn¡¯t realise you lived somewhere like that.¡¯


    I look up from my doughnut, confused.


    ¡®You saw where I worked¡­¡¯


    ¡®¡­but that¡¯s different.¡¯ He shifts uncomfortably.


    ¡®It¡¯s¡­ I don¡¯t know. I should have done something sooner.¡¯


    I stare at him for a long moment.


    ¡®I liked living there. It was full of my friends.¡¯


    He looks pained.


    ¡®But¡­¡¯


    We lapse into silence.


    I feel hurt again. It''s like a blow to the solar plexus. It wasn''t a mansion. We didn''t have an army of servants. It was crowded. It was run down from years of neglect. The bathroom was mouldy. It was drafty in winter. But it was a home. I''d rather spend a decade living there than a month at Jaq''s soulless mansion.


    Couldn''t he see the difference? Couldn''t he feel the comradery? The warmth? The¡­ indescribable essence that makes a home feel¡­ homey? The je ne sais quoi.


    The silence continues, almost unbroken until we reach the lawyer¡¯s office.


    She¡¯s very neat. Very professional. Her hair is perfect ¨C held back in a severe style that makes her look like she could be a military Sargent. Her nickname among the troops would have been ¡®the Executioner¡¯ - she''d be the last resort for her superiors to send in after everything else had failed.


    These fantasies are useless, but I wrap myself in them like a protective blanket.


    The Executioner and I work through documents ¨C permission for her to speak with my doctor, the police, my university, all on my behalf.


    ¡®I¡¯ll also need the details of your accountant.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t have an accountant¡­¡¯


    She examines me like a scientist peering through a microscope at a mosquito.


    ¡®Who does your accounting?¡¯


    ¡®¡­I do.¡¯


    I¡¯ve never felt shame admitting my financial position before ¨C to people like myself. But to lay it bare in front of someone like this¡­ it feels like I¡¯m peeling back my skin to show her the viscera beneath.


    She takes notes ¨C then hands me a card from her drawer.


    ¡®You¡¯re going to want an accountant if you¡¯re marrying up like this. I recommend you contact her as soon as possible.¡¯ She taps the card. ¡®She¡¯s very good at what she does.¡¯


    I take the card, but I¡¯m confused. The words make sense ¨C they¡¯re proper sentences. They have meaning¡­ but I feel like I¡¯m watching a foreign film, completely missing all the important cultural subtext.


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    When I leave the Executioner¡¯s office, I show the card to Jaq. He¡¯s surprised I don¡¯t have an accountant already. I shrug. He understands this world, he takes it in stride. I need to learn. I feel like I¡¯m drowning. Completely out of my depth. Parties and dinners, I can handle. Sort of. People are, at the core, just people. The systems built around the people, to separate them ¨C those are mysterious to me.


    I make an appointment to see the accountant.


    The day passes in a haze ¨C both seemingly endless and passing with shocking speed ¨C until I finally remember to take my panic meds.


    They¡¯re not for prolonged or frequent use. Too often, at too high a dose ¨C you get addicted, and they start to lose effectiveness. With the dose I''m taking now, I¡¯ve taken more in the past week than I did in the month prior. I don¡¯t remember the maximum frequency the doctor said was safe before I needed to be put on something else. I¡¯m fairly sure I¡¯m still under it. I don''t know. The fog begins to clear, and time draws back to its normal pace. I need to make a doctor''s appointment.


    <hr>


    Lionel meets us for dinner, dressed more shabbily than usual. He says he¡¯s found an excellent restaurant but won¡¯t tell us what it¡¯s called. This is meant to be a treat for me, to cheer me up. I¡¯m glad that I feel together enough to try to enjoy it.


    ¡®I turned down Father¡¯s invitation to dinner at the house again ¨C I told him you had had an emergency. I hope that¡¯s okay?¡¯


    Jaq looks worried for a moment.


    ¡®That¡¯s fine. It¡¯s true. I was robbed, and I don¡¯t think I¡¯d have been able to make it through another dinner with your folks.¡¯


    We reach the door of the restaurant ¨C Lionel bows with a flourish


    ¡®After you.¡¯


    I step inside, and suddenly feel inappropriately dressed. Movie posters cover every inch of the cramped dining room walls, memorabilia is packed into every shelf. Stuffed toys and figurines dangle from the ceiling, suspended by fishing line. Complete sensory overload in every direction. The small table closest to us is decoupaged with images of B-grade movie monsters. Lionel leads us to a table of our own, decoupaged with scenes from westerns, and distributes the stack of menus. I stare at the weird squashed face gracing the cover of mine.


    ¡®If you¡¯d have told me we were coming here¡­¡¯


    Lionel laughs at my bewilderment.


    ¡®If I said something, it wouldn¡¯t have been a surprise!¡¯


    Jaq looks uncomfortable. His eyes dart around the room, like he thinks the walls will close in on him at any moment.


    ¡®Why here?¡¯


    Lionel sits back in his chair, a self-satisfied expression on his face. He points to the table, an image of a cowboy on a bucking horse directly beneath his finger. Jaq sighs, his shoulders sagging.


    ¡®Your ¡®fianc¨¦e gave you a drawing like this, didn¡¯t she?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    Lionel grins.


    ¡®It gets better ¨C there¡¯s a cinema nearby that shows old films. This place has a deal with them ¨C if you hate it here, we can get our dinner served there¡­¡¯


    I love it here. I could stare at the shelves for hours and still not have seen everything.


    ¡®They¡¯re showing Johnny Guitar.¡¯


    I slap my hands on the table.


    ¡®Let¡¯s go!¡¯


    <hr>


    Immediately after the movie, Jaq leaves for home. He wants to be up early to practice ¨C it¡¯s my fault he couldn¡¯t today. He probably hoped to get dinner over with earlier to fit some practice in before bed. I feel remorse for my existence.


    ¡®You tired?¡¯


    I shake my head. The film had energised me. Probably didn¡¯t help that I¡¯d overslept, either.


    ¡®We¡¯ll take the scenic route to the car then.¡¯


    We stroll down the closed shopping strip, looking in windows at empty showrooms. The night air is refreshingly cold after the heat of the small cinema. A woman jogs past us with a dog in tow. Poor thing looks exhausted. We chat about the film ¨C or, more precisely, I babble about colour blocking and lighting whilst Lionel listens politely. We turn right, into a darker street with fewer businesses on it. I shift to babbling about using colour symbolically to denote heroes and villains ¨C


    ¡®compare Vienna¡¯s bright primary colours to Superman¡¯s leotard, and Emma¡¯s duller grey and green to Doctor Doom¡¯s cloak and armour.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®I get it, I get it - I¡¯m not just a pretty face¡¯


    I elbow him teasingly.


    ¡®Could have fooled me.¡¯


    He elbows back.


    ¡®Hey! Uncalled for!¡¯


    I laugh.


    ¡®What else are you then?''


    He looks thoughtful for a moment, then dashes to the right, yelling.


    ¡®A troublemaker!¡¯


    I chase him through the darkness, laughing hard. He doesn¡¯t run far. We continue in an easy silence until we reach the car.


    ¡®You know ¨C I never thought spending time with my brother¡¯s fianc¨¦e would be this much fun.¡¯


    I snort.


    ¡®You picked the venue, and the activity. You can¡¯t blame that on me.¡¯


    He nods, sagely.

 8. Dinner With a Deer (in Headlights)

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Friday</h2>


    Two days since the break-in, I finally have the courage to sort through the box marked ¡®pieces¡¯. Very little can be salvaged. I toy with the crumbs of old dreams, positioning an arm here and a nose there. I sigh. I could use the parts to make some kind of abstract mosaic monstrosity, but my heart isn¡¯t in it. I want these to be whole again. Unbroken. I rest my chin on my hands. The best I can do is glue.


    I admire kintsugi ¨C it''s a Japanese method for repairing pottery ¨C often simple, inexpensive things like cups and plates that were originally made without any real artistic attention beyond the basic form that was needed to achieve the task the thing was created for.


    Expensive items were mended this way too - but I think the philosophy of the art form is clearest when it''s used on cheap pottery. The use of precious metal as the glue shows an outsized degree of reverence and respect for the object; an extravagant level of gratitude for service rendered.


    It is a beautiful meditation on the value of the merely functional, as well as the ephemeral nature of so many of the tools we use in our daily lives.


    These shattered objects aren¡¯t like that. They weren''t ever functional. This stuff was already ''art''. It all already had feeling and emotion - feeling and emotion that would become subservient to the philosophy of the repair. Repairing them that way would almost be gauche. Disrespectful to the original art and the art form that inspired the repairs.


    It¡¯s all just rubble now. Rubble that will clog up a landfill somewhere.


    Perhaps I can find someone who wants garbage like this for their own mosaic project.


    I dust off my hands and ready myself to leave the hotel ¨C I see the accountant today. I need to make better use of this meeting than the one with the lawyer. I find a mostly-empty notebook to take with me, and write out a list of questions on the bus. I feel a little nauseous. I¡¯m overstepping my original bounds, but it feels necessary.


    For the greater good.


    The Executioner told me this accountant was good at her job. I hope she¡¯s half as good as the overly dramatized character I¡¯ve developed in my head.


    I need to feel useful.


    I reach the office a little early ¨C it¡¯s in a huge highrise. The waiting room has a large and tasteful floral display. Blood red anthuriums drip elegantly down a gnarled driftwood branch. My imaginary accountant transforms into a Zorro-like figure with a rapier as I fantasize about the flowers being real blood spatter from the foes she''s defeated. When I finally meet her, she looks more like a librarian. Short and neat. Slightly greying around the temples.


    ¡®Ms. Knight, I presume?¡¯


    She offers me her hand. I shake it.


    ¡®That would be me.¡¯


    Her office contrasts starkly with the waiting room ¨C heavily laden bookshelves fill every wall. Her desk is clean, apart from a single coffee cup.


    ¡®Tea, coffee?¡¯


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    I take out my notebook, and her red lipstick smile is vast.


    I explain my situation ¨C perhaps more bluntly than she was expecting, though I''m careful not to say anything that would hint at fraud. Poverty to wealth through a man that I¡¯m unsure of. She takes notes. Disapproving mother-in-law, precarious income. She offers advice. Recently robbed as a cover for what may be identity theft, or aggressive dirt gathering. She offers consolation.


    I ask questions. How safe is the money I¡¯ve been given, really? Can it be taken back if Frances forces me out? She takes notes and provides potential solutions. Means of defending myself if Jaq cracks under the weight of Frances¡¯ judgment.


    We play this game of dominoes across her table, my questions, her answers, leading to more questions, more answers, connecting together to form a coherent shape with the flow of a plan. One that, unfortunately, starts and stops with Jaq.


    ¡®I like you.¡¯ She declares.


    ¡®You¡¯re going to be a fun client.¡¯


    I¡¯m not sure how to take that.


    When I leave, I can see her reflection in the glass doors, grinning as she watches me cross the waiting room.


    I send Jaq a text, just to check up on him, and make my way back to the hotel. I don¡¯t expect him to reply any time soon. He should be practicing.


    I am surprised to discover that the hotel has a package for me. I retrieve it from the front desk. It¡¯s bulky, though not especially heavy, given its size. There¡¯s no sender''s name on the outside to explain it. I take it to my room and tear it open in the kitchen. Inside I discover layers of tissue paper¡­ and dresses?


    I sort through the box.


    This¡­ can¡¯t be mine.


    All thoughts of financial traps leap out of my mind.


    I text Jaq again, asking if he sent me a package.


    I leave the box in the kitchen and wait for a reply. Twenty minutes later, I get one. Jaq didn''t send me anything, but his practice is going well.


    I text Lionel, asking if he sent me a package. He denies it immediately.


    I stare at the box. It stares back, unblinking and ominous.


    Those two are the only ones that know I¡¯m staying here¡­ or at least the only ones who could buy this sort of stuff.


    I text Casey, asking if Jaq had told her where I was staying. He hadn¡¯t, though she wants me to come meet her for lunch sometime.


    <blockquote>


    And bring Jaques, I want to thank him properly for the rent money.


    </blockquote>


    I frown.


    I tip the entire contents of the box onto the floor ¨C dresses, blouses, skirts ¨C all Lucinda''s Solace, all in my size. No receipt. No note. I check their website ¨C it¡¯s one of everything in the new line.


    I never gave them my address. I didn¡¯t sign up for a mailing list, or anything like that.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The box doesn¡¯t make sense.


    It scares me.


    I take a photo of it and send the photo to both Jaq and Lionel. I repeat my question


    <blockquote>


    Are you sure you didn¡¯t send me anything? Because if you didn¡¯t, I don¡¯t know why this arrived at the hotel.


    </blockquote>


    Both deny it again.


    <blockquote>


    Did you tell anyone where I was staying?


    </blockquote>


    Both deny it.


    I send the photo to the Executioner.


    I feel awful that I can''t remember her real name.


    <hr>


    That evening, Jaq collects me from the hotel ¨C we¡¯re attending a ¡®function¡¯. This one has some sort of political component to it. His parents will be there. I¡¯m all suited up in a frilly frock and ready to face them.


    The building we arrive at looks like some sort of oversized town hall ¨C a huge staircase and marble pillars lead to the entrance. Inside, the sparkling chandeliers and gilt ceiling make me want to vomit. It¡¯s beautiful ¨C but I can¡¯t help wondering what the true cost of it all was.


    We sit together at a small table ¨C so small it¡¯s clearly only intended for the two of us. Lionel isn¡¯t coming. The waiter lists some options for the meal to come ¨C there is no physical menu ¨C he has it all memorised.


    I see Isaac and Frances enter. They¡¯re led to a nearby table. I give a tiny wave, and Isaac smiles. He already has a drink in his hand. I look back to Jaq. He seems fixated on the elaborately folded napkin.


    ¡®Hey. You doing okay?¡¯


    He meets my eye and nods.


    ¡®I¡¯m fine for now.¡¯


    I don''t like the implication of ''for now,'' but it''s not like he''s being unrealistic.


    I put my hand on the table, palm up. He looks at it for a moment, before placing his hand in mine. I give it a squeeze.


    ¡®Is this going to be as boring as it looks?¡¯


    ¡®¡­yeah. It¡¯s just going to be a bunch of speeches by politicians. Thanking donors, reassuring donors that they¡¯ll get what they want. That sort of thing.¡¯


    I suppress a shudder.


    ¡®Why are we here?¡¯


    Jaq looks over to Isaac and Frances.


    ¡®They¡¯re donors¡­ and I guess they want us to be seen here too.¡¯


    I take a deep breath and close my eyes.


    I¡¯m a prop.


    No, Jaq is the prop. I''m the prop''s prop.


    Well, at least I can be a good prop.


    A deceitful, lying prop.


    Soup is served, and speeches begin. I eat slowly, watching the speakers¡¯ mouths moving, but not really hearing them. My focus is on their tie pins, their hairstyles, their shirt collars. When the audience laughs, I smile. When the audience claps, I put down my cutlery and clap too. Jaq doesn¡¯t smile and is slow to clap. But, that¡¯s okay. He¡¯s meant to be here. I¡¯m the impostor.


    Speeches end and an array of desserts are wheeled in and laid on pristine white tablecloths. I avoid thinking about the policies I''m being made to support with my presence. Coffee and tea orders are taken. I ask Jaq to bring me something small from the dessert buffet. This is our chance to ¡®mingle¡¯. I don¡¯t want to make mistakes, so I stay in my seat to avoid the crowd around the desserts.


    Jaq brings me a sort of mousse with fruit piled on top. He has the same for himself. I see Isaac beckon him over. Jaq looks at me, worried. I smile and shoo him over to his father.


    The still-breathing gorgon, Frances, approaches.


    She sits across from me, looking me over the way a pawnbroker would appraise a beloved family heirloom sold in desperation. I meet her gaze calmly. She smiles, but the expression doesn¡¯t reach her eyes.


    ¡®How did you meet my son?¡¯ She says, speaking to me directly for the first time since I was called a bad influence. She uses her fork to carefully dissect the tiny pastry on her plate.


    I smile and sip my tea thoughtfully. Before I finish my mouthful, she asks;


    ¡®Where did you go to school?¡¯


    I continue smiling in silence. Watching her. These are not the questions she cares about.


    ¡®What are you studying at university?¡¯


    I return my cup gently to the table.


    ¡®What do your parents do?¡¯


    There it is. If she stole my documents, this is my one perfect chance to make them irrelevant.


    My smile broadens, and I lean forward, conspiratorially.


    ¡®It¡¯s okay.¡¯ I say softly.


    ¡®You can be more direct with me.¡¯ I incline my head towards Jaq.


    ¡®You want to know if I¡¯ll be an acceptable daughter-in-law.¡¯


    I pause and watch her face. She remains impassive.


    ¡®It¡¯s a question I¡¯d happily answer, but unfortunately, the term ¡®acceptable¡¯ is so ill-defined in this case.¡¯


    She scowls.


    ¡®We could argue all day about the value of charisma, wealth, loyalty, talent¡­ and in the end, we still wouldn¡¯t have a solid answer.¡¯


    My speech isn''t loud, but it is as much for her as lingering eavesdroppers. I can''t really distinguish anyone suspicious in the mass of moving bodies around us, but I feel like I should assume there is at least one.


    ¡®I know I am not from your social class. Not from a good family. I didn¡¯t go to a good school. But, I ask you this; would you prefer your son marry an idiot for their wealth or a pauper for their intellect?¡¯


    She almost chokes. She did not expect me to be this direct.


    ¡®I am not the daughter-in-law you wanted. Whoever she might be probably wouldn¡¯t have the strength to support him. I do. And, I intend to. I heard about the threat of disinheritance. I''m not interested in his money, so if you do that, it''s not going to frighten me away. I''m quite resourceful. He may not understand the first thing about household management, but I know more than enough for the both of us. I won''t let him go cold and hungry.¡¯


    I put my spoon down, stand and step away from the table. Speaking a little louder;


    ¡®Now, if you will excuse me, I find being judged by my pedigree extremely tiresome. I¡¯d much prefer to be judged by my personal competence.¡¯


    I imagine she doesn¡¯t yet know what I¡¯ve started. What I¡¯ve done. Realistically; she''s probably quite aware. She''s smarter than that. I can''t pretend she''s stupid.


    Events like this are either secretive, private affairs or almost wall-to-wall press. This one isn''t the secret sort. There will be press here. Some excited about the politics, some watching the affluent attendees. She undoubtedly brought me here specifically to put me in front of these people because she was hoping she might be able to embarrass me in the presence of the entire rumour mill. She could use that to bully Jaq into sending me away.


    People turn to look as I stride away from her. I don¡¯t need to glance back to know she¡¯s struggling to compose herself. She''s like Jaq that way. Too easy to fluster.


    Jaq is staring. Isaac doesn¡¯t seem to have noticed. I take Jaq¡¯s arm. He tenses for a brief moment.


    ¡®What did she say to you?¡¯ He asks, under his breath.


    ¡®Just a lot of probing questions really. I still don¡¯t think she likes me.¡¯


    I frown, and allow myself a moment of cruelty ¨C


    ¡®But, then, I suppose she doesn¡¯t have to like me, so long as you do.¡¯


    Jaq looks at me with flushed cheeks.


    Isaac laughs heartily.


    ¡®It¡¯s a good philosophy to have, my dear!¡¯


    He pats Jaq¡¯s free arm.


    ¡®You picked well. You should keep her around.¡¯


    Then he wanders away.


    ¡®What happened?¡¯ Jaq asks, with worry in his eyes.


    I give his arm a small squeeze and whisper;


    ¡®It¡¯s fine. That scene was a calculated risk. I need to keep her on her back foot¡­ I need her to know I can protect you the way she thinks she has. I need her to know I¡¯m willing to cause a fuss if I don¡¯t get my way.¡¯


    He relaxes a little.


    ¡®How on earth did I manage to find someone like you? You just¡­ know how to make her do what you want.¡¯


    It¡¯s my turn to scowl.


    ¡®Managing dangerous people is something you learn when you have nothing. If you can¡¯t guess what¡¯s under the surface, you get hurt. Badly.¡¯


    I think back on all the warnings about certain celebrity performers. Special guests. People like that. They were all lions and jackals, circling our little herd of theatrical nobodies. We did what we could to keep each other safe. We watched for signs that our predators were hungry. When they were ready to strike. We shivered and waited until we had to flee.


    I¡¯m not running this time.


    I''m making this territory mine.

 9. Dancing Marionette

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Saturday</h2>


    The following morning arrives with Big Important News; Frances had arranged for our engagement photos to be taken in the garden at their estate.


    Estate? They call their house an estate?


    I suppose it''s too big to be called a house, really.


    This is a peace offering. I can¡¯t refuse it.


    I take a hotel car to the ¡®estate¡¯. Before even entering the driveway, I can see a bustle of people. Camera equipment, bundles of flowers, a buffet¡­ this is far more than I expected. When I step out of the vehicle, I¡¯m immediately ushered to a dressing room that has been set up in the house. They have a selection of dresses for me to try, and an army of people with scissors and pins to force things to fit.


    These are ballgowns ¨C not what I¡¯d normally consider appropriate attire for wandering in a garden. Even worse are the shoes. Fashionable heels with thin straps in dozens of sizes. The sort of thing I would struggle to walk in on perfectly smooth flooring.


    Someone takes my engagement ring to clean it ¨C it has to be absolutely perfect for the photo shoot.


    Once dressed, I¡¯m cloaked in a plastic smock and placed in a chair. A team of people surround me with brushes and spritzer bottles, sharp pointy combs and single-use applicators. My nails are manicured, then determined to be of insufficient quality. False nails are applied instead. My feet are assaulted by a woman armed with a selection of medieval torture devices.


    Finally, I am permitted to stand. The shoes are immediately uncomfortable. Someone fusses with the folds of my dress.


    I hear Frances¡¯ voice ¨C she¡¯s telling someone to pick up the pace.


    Finally, I¡¯m brought out to the garden, supported on both sides by workers. A third carries the train of my gown so it doesn¡¯t get dirty. There¡¯s a secondary make-up station set up out here for between shots.


    It¡¯s so excessive.


    Jaq looks like a doll, still in the packaging. He is normally very neat and put-together. Today, he isn¡¯t fully human. I spot Lionel standing a safe distance away, by a tree. He has a bowl of dry pretzels in his hand. They don''t seem the sort of snack Frances would keep on hand. I wonder where he got them.


    Frances casts a critical eye over me.


    ¡®She¡¯ll do. Put her on the stage.¡¯


    I¡¯m escorted to a small raised platform. Jaq and I are posed like mannequins, directed by Frances. The photographers obediently snap picture after picture.


    I wobble over to a flowerbed, and my dress is artfully arranged around me. A bouquet is placed in my hands, then a florist makes a few expert adjustments. I smile, and look wistfully into the middle distance on command. My flowers are taken, and I¡¯m led to an arch.


    Finally, a break is called, and I make a run for freedom. With my train over my arm, I struggle down a cobbled path to a spot shielded from view.


    I sink onto the stone bench, grateful for its support. I don¡¯t have much time before they expect me back. I pull my knees up to my chest, and cover my head with my arms, probably ruining my hair. I¡¯ve been on stage before. I¡¯ve auditioned before. I¡¯ve been judged before. But this? Never have I felt more like a meat puppet, being posed and poked and prodded until I conform to someone else¡¯s idea of what a life should look like¡­


    An arm slips around my shoulder. The hand gently caressing my back. Neither Jaq nor Lionel would touch me like this. I freeze.


    ¡®Not wearing one of the dresses I sent you?¡¯


    Charles¡¯ voice cuts like a razor.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t pick you for someone who gets stage fright¡­¡¯


    Without moving my head, I search the area ¨C I can¡¯t see anyone else nearby.


    I did this to myself. I wanted to hide from the pomp and ceremony and I just threw myself into his claws.


    ¡®Or is it guilt?¡¯


    What the fuck? Whatthefuck?


    He pulls me closer to him ¨C I drop my feet to the ground and I use the movement to hide reaching for my phone. I don¡¯t have it. I haven''t had it since I was at the makeup station. Nobody wants photos of a fianc¨¦e checking her phone. I want to run, but I can¡¯t run in these shoes. Especially not across grass.


    ¡®I¡¯ve got something here to ask your opinion on¡­¡¯


    I sit still, shoulders rigid. He can¡¯t hurt me here. There are too many people. I just have to make a sound¡­


    He has his phone in his free hand ¨C he brings it closer so I can see it. It¡¯s a photo of Lionel and I at the waterfront, his arm around my shoulder, head tilted towards mine. Charles swipes his thumb across the screen, and there¡¯s a photo of Lionel and I at a caf¨¦ ¨C we¡¯re laughing. He swipes again ¨C same caf¨¦, Lionel¡¯s pointing his fork at me ¨C my mouth is slightly open because I¡¯m talking, but it looks like he¡¯s going to feed me a bite of his cake. He swipes again and it¡¯s Lionel and I at a street crossing, it looks like his hand is around my waist¡­ but I don¡¯t remember him doing that. He must have been reaching for the light button.


    ¡®What do you want me to say?¡¯ I say, my voice a cold monotone. ¡®I¡¯m friends with Jaq¡¯s brother.¡¯


    He laughs. I continue;


    ¡®And you¡¯re a creep that had me followed. How many thousands of photos did you have to sort through to find these? It''s a stretch to call these ''incriminating''.¡¯


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t matter ¨C what matters is what my friend at Hottest Celebrity Gossip will write.¡¯


    He¡¯s blackmailing me? With that? Goddamn scummy piece of ¨C


    He whispers, ¡®And what you¡¯ll do to stop me sending them.¡¯


    My entire being is made of ice.


    ¡®You¡¯re disgusting. The vilest creature to crawl across the earth. You seriously call yourself Jaq¡¯s friend?¡¯


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He laughs again.


    ¡®Send your photos. I couldn¡¯t care less. But if you do¡­¡¯


    I let the threat hang. He¡¯s unphased.


    ¡®You¡¯ll what? Tell them it isn¡¯t true? That¡¯s exactly what an adulteress would say.¡¯


    I have no comeback for that. It doesn''t matter that it wouldn''t count as adultery until after I''m married.


    ¡®Besides, a few crummy photos isn¡¯t all I have. I could have a little chat with Frances about a few interesting things I¡¯ve discovered about your history. Make life even more difficult for you.¡¯


    He has my documents. He has them. Why does he have them?


    He laughs louder.


    I look back up the path, hoping someone will come looking for me, and see us.


    ¡®Don¡¯t go yet ¨C the game¡¯s just getting fun.¡¯


    ¡®People¡¯s lives aren¡¯t games.¡¯


    He looks like he¡¯s about to say something, but I cut him off;


    ¡®I¡¯m not a game.¡¯


    Somehow, that gives him pause.


    ¡®Maybe not. But you will give me your number.¡¯


    What?


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t get to ask the questions. Give me your number.¡¯


    I give it to him. He smiles at me and snaps a photo for the contact picture.


    ¡®You look so grumpy.¡¯


    He releases his grip on my shoulder.


    I stand awkwardly and walk back to the photoshoot, hobbled by my shoes.


    I¡¯m drowning. I¡¯m drowning, and there¡¯s nothing above me but ice.


    Lionel sees me returning from his distant spot by a hedge and immediately looks concerned.


    ¡®Are you okay?¡¯


    ¡®Pitch followed me into the garden¡­¡¯


    He rushes over to me.


    ¡®He has my stolen paperwork.¡¯


    One of the workers comes over and exclaims over the state of my hair. He commands me to return to the stylist. I follow him and sit back in the stylist¡¯s chair. Lionel stands nearby now, my own personal Talos, guarding me against attack.


    The stylist tut-tuts over me, and gently combs a few stray strands of hair, spraying more choking mystery chemicals over my already chemical-drenched mane.


    I briefly contemplate the idea of wearing a wire at all times. Didn¡¯t Nixon record every conversation he ever had? Of course, it backfired on him. It¡¯s a stupid and extreme idea. It¡¯d still make me feel safer. I¡¯d feel safer still if I had a real giant mechanical guardian like Talos. Or an army of bodyguards in black suits lurking in the shadows.


    My brief respite over, I¡¯m led back to the banks of Tartarus by one of Hades¡¯ Frances¡¯ Hecatonchires staff. The river Phlegethon burns behind me, blocking my retreat.


    <hr>


    By the time I settle my nerves, I¡¯m back in my own clothes. Not really my own clothes. My own clothes are comfortable. This is my ''Jaques Glarean''s fianc¨¦e'' costume. I have a towel wrapped around my head, keeping drips from landing on the carpet. I refused to have my hair blow-dried. I don''t think I could cope with the noise right now.


    Lionel is sitting on the arm of a couch, not far from me. I can hear Jaq¡¯s violin from somewhere else in the house. A hot cup of tea sits on the table in front of me.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry, what were you saying?¡¯


    Lionel looks genuinely worried.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want you going back to the hotel alone.¡¯


    I examine the teacup. I''m not sure caffeine is a good idea right now. Stimulants, even as mild as this, have a much greater effect on me when I''m anxious. I don''t want to exacerbate my current condition.


    ¡®Do you know where my handbag is?¡¯


    He points to the floor beside my chair.


    ¡®Ah.¡¯


    I open it and fish out my emergency torch. It''s one of those big heavy metal ones. The sort that could crack a skull and still work just fine. I place it on the table next to my cup.


    ¡®This may not come as a particularly big surprise, but I¡¯m fairly well versed in intimidating would-be attackers. A torch like this isn''t technically a weapon, but considering the size and weight, it might as well be a cudgel.¡¯


    Lionel looks at the chipped and scuffed finish on the torch. It looks like it''s been used as a cudgel for years. Still, he seems doubtful.


    ¡®And what if the person coming after you has a knife or a gun?¡¯


    ''The primary purpose of the art of intimidation is making yourself look like you''re more trouble than it''s worth to attack. Not actually fighting anyone. If waving around a club and being loud isn''t enough, my next step is to distract the aggressor and run the hell away.''


    I press the switch on the torch twice in quick succession, activating the strobe function. It''s unpleasant to look at, even in broad daylight. I let it flash for a few seconds, then turn it off.


    ¡®So, I dazzle the aggressor with the light, making it hard for them to look at me, and I run screaming. Mind you, I''ve never had to actually use the light after a failed intimidation.¡¯


    He reaches over and takes the torch.


    ''And you just carry this with you all the time?''


    ''Pretty much. You never know when you will need a light. The power goes out. A bulb in the costume room dies. Sometimes you have to get old sets from a spider-infested storage shed.''


    ''But it''s huge. And heavy. This thing has to weigh at least a kilo.''


    I point at my handbag. It''s voluminous. It''s heavy. I''m well prepared for most circumstances.


    ''I still don''t like it. Please make sure one of us is always with you when you enter or leave that place.''


    I sigh. The hotel is full of security cameras and staff. Charles would have to be a complete idiot to do something there. I honestly can''t rule that out though.


    People have always been so worried about me being unable to fight off attackers. It would be sweet if it weren''t so condescending. Normally the expected attackers are generic boogeymen that lurk in the streets after dark, conjured up by scaremongering in the media and overactive imaginations, not real people with names and identifiable motivations.


    ''Sure.''


    ''And call us for literally anything else you need. We''re here for you.''


    Lionel gets up and takes his own teacup to the kitchen. I pull my phone out of its pocket. It''s nearly four. I need to tell my lawyer that Charles has my paperwork. She probably won''t respond until tomorrow, but it''s better that I text her now than completely forget.


    I have more messages waiting for me than I expect. I check those.


    Most of them are from a number I don¡¯t have saved in my contacts.


    The first is a photo of Lionel standing protectively over me.


    <blockquote>


    I¡¯ll pick you up from the hotel at 11.30 tomorrow.


    Wear something fun.


    Don¡¯t tell anyone.


    </blockquote>


    Lionel returns, and asks;


    ¡®What¡¯s wrong?¡¯


    ¡®Ah. Is there¡­ hm. ¡®


    I¡¯m not sure what to say.


    Charles says I can¡¯t tell anyone, but how will he know if I do? Does he have spies? Is he that much of a Bond villain? I look out the window to see if I can spot someone looking in on us.


    ¡®Video games.¡¯


    Lionel looks confused.


    ¡®Let¡¯s go play video games.''


    He leads me to his room, still confused. I stop next to the bean bag and place my unlocked phone on it. I do it as deliberately as I can to make it clear I want him to read it. I turn away and pretend to read the titles of a pile of games near the TV. My hands are shaking again.


    I hear Lionel pick up the phone. I close my eyes and wait. I don¡¯t know how he will react.


    Silence.


    Silence.


    Footsteps.


    Fainter.


    Gone.


    I open my eyes. I¡¯m alone in the room. I sit on the bean bag, game case in hand, and wait. He doesn''t return.

 10. Out Cold

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Sunday</h2>


    I wake up in the hotel, sun blazing in at me ¨C I don¡¯t recall falling asleep with the curtains open. It seems like an extremely silly thing to do if I''m actually being spied on. I''m sure I closed them.


    Odd.


    Probably fine though. I''m not on the ground floor.


    I climb out of bed and shuffle to the kitchenette ¨C Lionel and Jaq are both there, looking tired.


    ''Hello? I didn''t know you were coming over so early.''


    I didn''t know that they would be visiting at all.


    ¡®Feeling better today?¡¯ Lionel asks.


    ¡®Sort of.¡¯


    I rub my face.


    ¡®You¡¯re not going, are you?¡¯


    ¡®Huh? Oh. That.¡¯


    I rest my head on the marble counter.


    ¡®I think I have to.¡¯


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    ¡®I have to protect Jaq''s reputation.''


    Neither of them seem to know how to respond.


    I look up at them from the table. Jaq looks like he has no idea what to do or say. Lionel looks like he wants to punch something.


    For Jaq, I say;


    ¡®He has photos of Lionel and me together. They look vaguely like we¡¯re on a date. And I don¡¯t know what he found in my paperwork that he wants to tell Frances about. I already told her I''m poor, so she won''t be surprised by that. But I''m sure he could twist something else in there to his benefit.''


    My blood runs cold. There might actually be dangerous records in there.


    I don''t want to think about it.


    ¡®He¡¯s threatening to tell Mother?¡¯


    ¡®And¡­ someone at some gossip magazine.¡¯


    I breathe a heavy sigh that feels like it completely empties my lungs. My ribs are crushing my organs.


    ¡®I don¡¯t know what¡¯s in the documents that would count as gossip. I worked in fast food, sales, call centers¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡¯


    I don¡¯t want to go into detail about what might be in there. I don¡¯t want to have to just throw all the most private details of my life out for the two of them to pick through. I already did enough of that with the Executioner. For my own mental health, I need to maintain my privacy. I don''t want to relive all my worst experiences. I don''t want to be pitied.


    ¡®Unlock your phone.¡¯


    I do so. Lionel takes it for a minute, then returns it.


    ¡®I put a GPS kid-tracker app on your phone. I can follow at a distance.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    It''s not nothing. I just don''t know how much help it could be. I close my eyes. I doubt I''m about to be murdered.


    Murder isn''t the worst thing he could do to me.


    ¡®Should I pull a Nixon?¡¯


    ¡®Nixon?¡¯


    ¡®Secret recording devices.¡¯


    Lionel chuckles slightly.


    ¡®I guess we could do something like that.¡¯


    He takes my phone again. I¡¯m exhausted. I want to go back to sleep.


    ¡®Here. When he picks you up, you can use this to stream the entire thing to a private channel. I can listen from my phone while I follow.¡¯


    I nod, my cheek sticking to the counter. If Charles tries to talk to me about that¡­ They will hear. I don''t want them to hear. I don''t want to be with him alone. I don''t want to be forced to talk to him about my personal experiences with predators who had authority over me. If they are there to hear it...


    Would it be better just to say it now? Get it over with?


    I don''t think I can say it voluntarily.


    ¡®That¡¯s perfect.''


    Jaq stammers;


    ¡®I¡¯d go in your place if I thought I¡¯d look enough like you in a wig and a dress.¡¯


    I laugh.


    <hr>


    After chasing those two out so I can get ready, I call the Executioner¡¯s office. Surprisingly, she¡¯s there to take my call. At first she tells me not to go. Then, she tells me it¡¯s illegal to secretly record conversations unless the police give their authority.


    ¡®So what can I do?¡¯


    ¡®Involve police.¡¯


    My head hurts.


    ¡®I don¡¯t want this to affect Jaq ¨C Frances¡­¡¯


    ¡®Whether you go, involve police, or call his bluff¡­ this affects Jaq.¡¯


    ¡®Bluff?¡¯


    ¡®The second he releases that information he has no more power over you, and there will be a paper trail I can use to destroy him in court. It¡¯s the kind of scandal that wouldn¡¯t usually make it before a judge ¨C it¡¯s better to settle. If he¡¯s smart, he won¡¯t release the information.¡¯


    I glance over the contents of the bathroom medicine cabinet ¨C there are some complementary headache pills. Good. I need them.


    ¡®And, from what you tell me, the information he¡¯s likely to have isn¡¯t particularly damning for you.¡¯


    I didn''t tell her about the worst possibility. Maybe it would be easier to write it down and email it to her. Then I don''t have to experience her response in real-time. She''ll probably tell me it''s not a big deal. Academic fraud happens all the time. I was just unlucky. Twice. Because the same academic sold me out, and nobody listens to students accused of cheating.


    ¡®But it might make Frances bully Jaq into dumping me. She¡¯s already bullied him into revealing my identity to her¡­ and that¡¯s how I met Pitch in the first place.¡¯


    The Executioner pauses.


    ¡®I can¡¯t tell you what to do. I can only advise you. You make your own choices.¡¯


    Left alone in the cold bathroom, I am wracked with indecision. She says she can destroy him if he releases the information¡­ but if Frances cuts Jaq off¡­ I can¡¯t pay the Executioner to destroy Charles. And why would Jaq help me after that? I¡¯d have ruined his chance to escape his mother¡¯s cruelty. She would never accept me, and he''d be forced to find someone else to help him defraud them.


    I¡¯m already inferior quality goods to her. If she sees me as damaged as well?


    ¡®Fuck.¡¯


    No one said I must go quietly into the jaws of the beast. I rummage through the boxes of clothes, searching for solutions.


    He said to wear something fun.


    He didn¡¯t define ¡®fun¡¯.


    <hr>


    Charles stands in the hotel lobby, watching the lifts. He hasn¡¯t noticed me exiting the stairwell. I whisper to my phone;


    ¡®He¡¯s here.¡¯


    Then I put it back in my jacket. I¡¯ve worn this jacket like armour a thousand times before. It¡¯s made me feel safe walking home late at night.


    There''s more than one reason a jacket like this is colloquially known as a ''battle jacket''. Originating in the military, carrying through biker gang culture, finally arriving in the punk and metal scenes with little alteration beyond the change in insignia and the addition of decorative studs and spikes; these jackets are visually intimidating. This is something you wear so that the people on your side know you''re one of theirs, and your enemies know you''re not interested in hiding. They give the wearer an aura of barely controlled violence, though nowadays, people rarely actually get into fights in them. Painted with a broad brush; metalheads are about the sweetest bunch of people you could meet.


    I''m not sporting a real gang''s colours or a huge satanic band logo that would frighten the elderly - I don''t have to. The suggestion of affiliation with violence is enough.


    The back of this jacket just depicts crossed switchblades. I like to think it reads ''don''t fuck with me.''


    Today, the protection it offers me isn¡¯t just aesthetic. Something eye-catching does mean more eyes on me - more witnesses, and that''s nice, but the main line of defence is the phone in my pocket.


    I stride across the lobby in my scruffy black steel caps, drawing odd looks from other guests.


    ¡®Hey, arsehole.¡¯


    Charles turns to me, looking confused, then amused.


    ¡®Ah, you¡¯ve come in costume then? What''s in the bag?¡¯


    ¡®How do you know this isn¡¯t what I normally wear?¡¯


    ¡®Because I¡¯ve never seen you in anything but that one brand you like so much, and I know you work for a theatre.¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t know that I only wear the one brand because all my ''Jaq''s fianc¨¦e'' clothes came from the one store, on the one shopping trip.


    He¡¯s done research, but perhaps not that much.


    ¡®For some reason, I¡¯m beginning to doubt that you have anything to tell Frances.¡¯


    I turn to walk away. He catches my arm.


    ¡®Now now, I have plenty of things to talk to her about. A whole green folder of things.¡¯


    He laughs and pulls me towards the exit¡­ he¡¯s flexing by confirming he has my documents, but he still hasn''t referenced anything specific. I allow myself to hope that he doesn''t have anything.


    ¡®Come on then.¡¯


    I follow slowly, forcing him to pull me along. The more visibly reluctant, the better. If the police have to review the hotel¡¯s security footage¡­


    How is he being this much of a moron? Doesn''t he know police can access security footage?


    We reach his car ¨C I don¡¯t know much about cars, but it looks like it¡¯s meant for speed. It¡¯s small, with only two seats. There are vents on the bonnet and down the side. I''m not sure what use side vents are, or if they''re purely decoration. At least the bonnet vents probably cool the engine somehow.


    He opens the door.


    ¡®Get in.¡¯


    I glare.


    ¡®Where are we going?¡¯


    ¡®Somewhere nice. I promise. Just get in.¡¯


    I take my seat. He hops in on the driver¡¯s side.


    ¡®Don¡¯t look so worried,¡¯ he says, starting the car.


    ¡®I¡¯d have to be an amazing actor to pull off looking calm while being kidnapped by a blackmailer.¡¯


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    He looks genuinely hurt.


    ¡®Is that what you think this is?¡¯


    ¡®Prove it isn¡¯t.¡¯


    We drive in silence for a while. I know I won¡¯t see Lionel following, but I watch the rearview mirror anyway.


    ¡®How¡¯s Jack¡¯s performance coming along?¡¯


    ¡®¡­fine.¡¯


    ¡®Frances giving him a hard time?¡¯


    ¡®Ask him yourself.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t. He won¡¯t talk to me.¡¯


    Huh?


    ¡®That¡¯s his choice then.¡¯


    This time the silence is oppressive.


    ¡®You know, you owe me an apology.¡¯


    I stare at him.


    ¡®Excuse me?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯ve been trying to protect you. Yet, you told him not to spend time with me anymore.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    Protect me? He calls that ''protecting?''


    ¡®You told him I was a creep.¡¯


    I don¡¯t remember it exactly, but I¡¯m pretty sure I told Jaq to go to Charles¡¯ house to practice. I just said I wouldn¡¯t be going with him. Would he listen if I explained it?


    The monologue continues;


    ¡®You don¡¯t know him like I do, you know. You¡¯re not important to him. He never talked about you. Not once. Wouldn¡¯t answer questions about you. Wouldn¡¯t introduce me to you. How many times has he even brought you to his concerts? But you had to tell him I scared you? You should be scared of him.¡¯


    I don¡¯t know what Jaq said to Charles. I didn¡¯t even realise that he¡¯d confronted Charles about making me uncomfortable.


    I thought it was a little weird he was staying home to practice¡­


    I put my hand in my pocket, thinking about texting him to ask.


    Charles looks over at me.


    ¡®Put your phone in the glove box.¡¯


    ¡®What? Why?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m taking you on a nice little outing, and I¡¯d rather we not be disturbed. Put the phone in the glove box.¡¯


    I feel like I¡¯m being disarmed.


    ¡®Go on. You can have it back when we¡¯re done. This will only take a few hours. I promise it¡¯ll be fun. I¡¯m not going to hurt you.¡¯


    ¡®I¡­ I think you¡¯ve misunderstood-¡®


    ¡®Misunderstood what?¡¯ He snaps. ¡®You¡¯re the one with the incomplete picture. Phone. In glove box. Now.¡¯


    My hands shake as I gently place my phone into the compartment. I pray we¡¯re not about to swap to a different vehicle.


    I have to try to reason with him.


    ¡®You probably don¡¯t want to listen-¡®


    ¡®You¡¯re damn right I don¡¯t want to listen to you.¡¯


    ¡®Please. Let me speak.¡¯ I feel like I''m being forced to beg.


    ¡®Fine. Spout your bullshit.¡¯


    I should have taken more than just headache pills. Why didn''t I take more than headache pills?


    ¡®I didn¡¯t tell Jaq to stop being your friend.¡¯


    Charles¡¯ laugh sounds more like a snarl.


    ¡®He wanted to go to your house. I told him it was a good idea.¡¯


    ¡®Don''t lie to me.¡¯


    ¡®Let me call him.¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    I shut my eyes. I have no idea where we are anyway.


    ¡®Then call him yourself, to clarify exactly what I said.¡¯


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t fucking matter exactly what you said! The result is what matters.¡¯


    But¡­ none of this is real. Why do the consequences have to be so real when the relationship isn¡¯t?


    Charles pulls sharply into a busy carpark and I bump my head against the window.


    He snaps at me;


    ''He doesn¡¯t care about you, you idiot.''


    I don¡¯t understand.


    ¡®He picked you to piss off his mummy.¡¯


    ¡®¡­I-¡¯


    ¡®Shut up. I know what you are.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    We swerve again, taking a ramp to a higher level.


    ¡®Haven¡¯t been home once since I met you ¡ª That¡¯s weird. Nothing in your room at all to show that you care about him. Nothing. Just boxes of costumes and props.¡¯


    What? I didn''t bring all my clothes to the hotel. Did he think the clothes I left behind were all just costumes?


    ¡®Where do you really live? I don¡¯t know. Can¡¯t be the hotel. You don¡¯t have the money for it. I''ve seen your ''official'' work history. Unless you do something less legal on the side. That would explain a lot.¡¯


    He turns the engine off and we sit a moment.


    ''You don''t seem to be a gold digger. Other than the ring, he hasn''t given you anything, has he? No new car, no nice jewellery. No house. You haven''t made any demands either, or he''d be whining to me about how much of a needy bitch you are. Surely you understand he''ll have you sign a prenuptial agreement before the wedding. You''re not stupid. You know if you leave him, you''re back on your arse.''


    I stare at him in disbelief.


    ¡®If you''re not a gold digger, that doesn''t mean you''re sincere. You want him to save you.¡¯


    I have no idea what he''s saying. I try to interrupt;


    ¡®This isn¡¯t what you think it is. Please talk to Jaq. Please call him.¡¯


    ¡®Sure, and then you¡¯ll just scream bloody murder, and I¡¯ll be in even more shit for trying to help you.¡¯


    ¡®¡­If I was going to, I¡¯d have told him you were blackmailing me already.¡¯


    ¡®What the fuck is wrong with you? Jack''s nobody''s knight in shining armour. He won''t save you.¡¯ Charles spits.


    I rest my head against the glass. I can''t take this. How did he come to this conclusion?


    The automatic locks snap open as he removes the keys from the ignition.


    ¡®Get out.''


    ¡®¡­no¡­¡¯


    He gets out and circles around the car. I snatch my phone from the glove box and hide it in my pocket again, praying he doesn''t see. He opens my door and takes my arm. He doesn''t seem to have noticed.


    ''Come on. We have somewhere to be.''


    I get out of the car. It''s awkward. I make it awkward. As confused as I am, I still don''t want it to be easy for him to explain any security footage.


    ''What''s in the bag anyway? Some gigantic old-timey tape recorder? Think you''re a spy? Leave it in the car.''


    I don''t want to surrender my bag, but I still have my phone. I reluctantly put the bag in the tiny boot next to his gym bag. I wince when he slams the lid shut.


    ''So what was it? Debts to gangsters? Drugs? Gambling? Prostitution? What were you hoping Jack would save you from?''


    ''What are you talking about?''


    ''You can''t be a professional scam artist, or there''s no way you''d still be working for peanuts at that same shitty theatre. You would have fleeced them for what little they had and fucked off.''


    We''re walking quickly towards the elevator back to ground level. There aren''t any people around to see this.


    ''Honestly? I don''t care why you''re running. If you want a saviour, be smarter about it. Find one that knows you exist beyond when you''re useful to him.''


    We walk down a path beside a wall covered completely with posters pasted up. They''re advertising zoo exhibits. I finally catch a whiff of it - the unmistakable stench of animal dung.


    ''Are we going to the zoo?''


    The question sounds absurd.


    ''Yeah. You like animals. Your room was full of animal pictures. We''re going on a nice date, so you can see what it''s like for someone to pay attention to you.''


    What? Does he think this is a nice date? Being blackmailed and kidnapped? What''s a bad date then? No, I don''t want to know.


    We approach the ticket kiosk. I can''t believe this is happening. What''s wrong with this guy''s head?


    ''Look. If you play along, I''ll give back your documents and delete the photos.''


    I stare, dumbfounded. It was all a bluff. He wasn''t going to share anything. He was just threatening to be intimidating. I fell for it. Even with people smarter than me warning me what was happening. This guy is just¡­ I don''t even know how to describe him.


    Is this just what bored rich people do? Come up with hare-brained schemes for some kind of pointless game of one-upmanship?


    Idiot! I let myself get involved with this!


    ''Fine. I''ll play along. Provided that nothing you want from me is unreasonable.''


    ''Good girl.''


    I shudder inwardly. Anyone who has ever spoken to me like that has treated me like they thought I was no more than a trained dog. Happy to sit and shake and speak on command.


    This man repulses me in every way.


    Unaware of my loathing, he waves to the clerk at the kiosk, and we are sent into the zoo with a map each and some basic directions. No ticket needed. I guess we were expected. This outing was planned.


    Charles places his hand on my lower back, guiding me down a walkway. I want to slap his hand away. It feels like a leash.


    ''I''m sorry to pull the unreasonable caveat out so early, but please remove your hand. We''re not on good enough terms for physical contact like this.''


    He bows with a mocking flourish.


    ''As you wish, my lady.''


    Are Jaq and Lionel going to follow us? Or will they stay outside? This is a pretty public place, though it''s not terribly busy at the moment. I don''t think they will need to follow.


    He looms over me. I feel like a mouse stalked by a lion.


    I want them to follow.


    We pass through the exhibits, pausing to look at the animals. Charles plays pretend with himself, calling me ''Jojo'' and comparing me to the cuter creatures. I try to maintain a pleasant fa?ade. It''s unconvincing. I keep noticing burly-looking men with earpieces in, casually loitering in random places. Not really looking at the animals. Not there with anyone.


    Do zoos usually have this much security? Maybe they''re Charles'' security team?


    Am I being paranoid?


    We pass a cafeteria; he buys us greasy food and soft drinks. The food tastes like styrofoam. After what feels like hours, we sit down in front of the tiger enclosure. I''m exhausted. Even in comfortable shoes, this is too much.


    There are massive gashes in the plexiglass windows, probably from the tigers'' claws. These animals were never meant to be in tiny boxes like this. I wouldn''t blame them if they finally clawed their way through the glass and killed as many humans as they could before someone finally shot them to death. I just hope they take me first.


    Charles is seated beside me, pressed close. One arm around my waist, the other gesturing with his half-empty cup. I''m barely aware of what he''s saying. All I can think is ''get your hand off me, get your hand off me, get your hand off me.'' I try to let it slide, hoping he''ll let go on his own, but he doesn''t.


    ''Is this embrace completely necessary? I''m fairly sure I already told you not to touch me.''


    ''Sorry, sorry, I just thought we were getting to be better friends.''


    The arm is withdrawn - but he doesn''t shift away from me. Where our thighs touch, my skin crawls. I feel nauseous. I see his smiling face reflected in the glass. There''s malice there. For all the talk of ''saving'' me, I see no kindness, no empathy, no pity.


    He''s definitely not being honest about why he brought me here. I don''t know why he thought this excuse would work. Did he think he could bully me into falling in love with him?


    I close my eyes so I don''t have to see his face anymore.


    ''Tired already, JoJo?''


    I glance back at him.


    ''Yeah.''


    ''Then let''s head out. I know a nice cosy spot we can end our date at.''


    Please let this be over. I can''t deal with any more of this.


    We walk back to the entrance. It''s a lot closer than I thought it was. The person at the kiosk waves at us as we leave. I steal glances back at the security guards conspicuously milling about. Their clothes are plain; no markings for a security firm.


    I think I need to throw up.


    This isn''t just anxiety nausea.


    I look at the cup in my hand.


    I saw it being made. It never left my hand. I can''t have been poisoned.


    I think he''s talking to me. Smiling. My legs betray me, and I stumble. I''m a little confused about how I came to be on the ground. Charles helps me up to my feet and supports me as we walk. One of the burly men comes to assist, but Charles waves him away, taking me back to the car park himself.


    We go back up the elevator, back to his little car. He opens my door, all smiles. I don''t want to get in - I''ll vomit in there. There''s no way I could pay to fix that.


    When I resist, he grows angry. It feels like it¡¯s happening to someone else. Somewhere else. Some other time. He has me by the arm and neck, forcing me down into the seat. It hurts. A dull echo of pain. The way the sensation travels along my arm is fascinating ¨C like a sort of electrical storm, branching and flowing, gathering here, dissipating there.


    ¡®...you¡¯re hurting me¡­¡¯


    There¡¯s a crash, and he releases me. I have two hands on the car door now, steadying myself against the rocking of the ground. I focus on the words I said;


    ¡®You¡¯re hurting me, you¡¯re hurting me.¡¯


    They are collections of meaningless sounds that symbolise concepts I barely understand. I''m not sure why I said them in the first place.


    Something warm is around me. Warm is nice. My hands are so cold.


    ¡®¡­need to throw it up?¡¯


    It sounds so faint. Somewhere on the street below.


    ¡®¡­dilute with water.¡¯


    Something is put in my hands. It¡¯s a bottle of water. I assume I''m supposed to drink it. I struggle to hold it steady, but I manage to swallow some. I stumble as we walk towards another car - I see Charles on the ground, his face red. I laugh. He spilt his drink.


    <hr>


    I awaken to a splitting headache. The descriptor is not figurative; it feels like my skull has literally split into pieces, and they''re all trying to fight their way out through my skin. I groan and open my eyes, then abruptly shut them again.


    ''You''re awake!''


    Arms are flung tightly around me.


    ''Can someone close the curtains? It''s way too bright for this early in the morning.''


    ''It''s the middle of the night - you were drugged.''


    I shake my head to try to drive off the fogginess. Big mistake.


    ''Bathroom!''


    I lurch away from the friendly hugger and stumble into the dark bathroom. I think I''m in my hotel room. I feel a little better for that, though not enough to keep me from sending my last meal back out the way it came. I lean against the bathroom cabinet, eyes shut, feeling sorry for myself.


    If I was drugged¡­ I check my clothes. Still fully dressed. The belt is still done to the correct notch, my boots are still tied the right way. Even my bra is still hooked to the right loops. I look into the toilet bowl to see if there is anything suspicious in there - another mistake. Apparently, my gut wasn''t completely empty.


    Someone gently lifts my hair up, out of my face. It feels like they''re tying it with a hair tie.


    ''Thank you¡­''


    With that, another heave.


    When I finally feel safe to leave the bathroom, Lionel is there to support me back to the kitchenette, where he releases me, and takes me by the shoulders.


    ¡®Let¡¯s never ever do this again, okay?¡¯


    ¡®Okay.¡¯ I say, not entirely sure what ''this'' is.


    Then I remember seeing Charles on the ground, bloody.


    ¡®Oh. Did you hit Pitch?¡¯


    Lionel¡¯s tone is bitter.


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯.


    ''Wow.''


    ''Yeah.''


    I contemplate for a while.


    ''Won''t you get in trouble for assault?''


    Lionel shakes his head.


    ''We have too much proof that he kidnapped you, and I was acting in your defence. He''d be in far more trouble than me if he tried to report anything.''


    ¡®He should talk to Jaq.¡¯


    ¡®Seriously?¡¯ Lionel looks at me, shocked.


    ¡®Yeah. ¡®


    ¡®Are you thinking straight?¡¯


    ¡®I think so.¡¯


    Lionel hisses through his teeth.


    ¡®You¡¯re probably right.''


    We sit in silence for a while.


    ''He said Jaq said I told him to say... wait, I''m not making sense.''


    I rest my head on the table.


    ''He thinks I''m stealing Jaq from him.''


    Lionel shifts behind me.


    ''Jaq never belonged to him.''


    ''He doesn''t know that.''


    I''m not sure why I said it, or what it''s supposed to mean, but the words spiral in my head. I feel Lionel gently pat my shoulder.


    ''I''m going to let the doctor know you''re awake. Is there anything I can do for you?''


    ''Can you tell Casey that I''m okay?''


    ''Sure, where''s your phone?''


    Then I''m asleep.

 11. Too Soon

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Monday</h2>


    When the morning does arrive, I feel like my brain is made of hot compost - replete with burrowing rats and worms. I remember flashes of nightmarish nonsense that can''t be real; A gigantic Lionel leaning down to lift Charles up into his car, but Charles is a pile of tiny red rabbits, whimpering, trying to escape. A staticky voice in the heavens blares;


    ''He wasn¡¯t unconscious, just playing possum.''


    I rub my eyes and check the time.


    Moving my arms reveals to me all the pain I didn''t know I was in - I slept in my ridiculous battle jacket covered in pins and patches. I peel back one sleeve to discover the texture of the fabric with all its folds and seams deeply imprinted in my flesh. I gingerly take the whole thing off and feel freer. Thankfully, I had the foresight to remove my boots. They wouldn''t have been fun to deal with had I slept in them. The buckle on my belt hurts to undo, but it has to go. All of it has to go.


    My skin stings as I stumble to the bathroom. My green folder is on the counter in the kitchenette. I guess I managed to get it back somehow.


    The shower doesn''t do enough to wake me up. My head hurts, and the drumming of the water on my scalp doesn''t help at all. When I''m out, I dress myself in my own clothes. Not the ones Jaq bought me. Those are too fussy for someone feeling this awful. He''ll forgive me for being out of costume for one day.


    I retrieve my phone. I hold it in both hands. I feel like a drowning sailor clinging to a life buoy. I''m not sure why. I check my texts. Nothing remarkable.


    I want to call Casey.


    I want to tell her that I think I was roofied. I want to tell her I''m okay.


    I can''t.


    Not now. The run for the play isn''t long. For her sake, I have to wait. Just a few more days.


    Can I even tell her at all?


    I start to sob uncontrollably. The loneliness of being unable to speak to my closest friend burns my insides.


    <hr>


    After some time - maybe minutes, maybe hours, there''s a sound behind me.


    ¡®Jo. Jo. Wake up.¡¯


    From my vantage point, floating in the clouds a million miles away over a warm tropical peninsula, I slam back into reality.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    Casey and Lionel are with me in the kitchenette.


    ''How did you get here?''


    Casey is crying. She hugs me close.


    ''Lionel let me in. Are you okay?''


    I think hard about the question.


    ''Not exactly.''


    Lionel looks awkward, unsure of what to do.


    ''I got your folder out of his car. I guess he might have actually given it back to you. I don''t know if he took copies of anything, or if he kept anything. You should check it to make sure it''s all there.''


    I''m too absorbed by the hug to follow his advice. I don''t want to let Casey go.


    ''I don''t think copies of documents would be enough for a tabloid to risk a lawsuit, but I guess it depends on whether... the kidnapper... is bribing them to carry the story or not.''


    Casey squeezes me tighter. I guess he hasn''t told her who did this. I probably shouldn''t either.


    ''I made sure to send the kidnapper some deterrent material from the dash-cam recording I made - something to persuade him it''d be in his best interests to leave you alone.''


    ''Thank you.''


    ''No problem. You wouldn''t have gotten into this mess if my brother wasn''t such an idiot.''


    Lionel looks around.


    ''The doctor says your toxicology report is in the priority queue. It won''t be long before we have it.'' He pauses to sigh. ''Now that you have someone to stay with you, I''m going to go back home. Let you have some privacy to talk. Call me if you need anything.''


    He places my room key on the counter, tapping it twice as though to draw my attention to it, and then steps out of the room. The door clicks quietly shut behind him.


    ''Casey?''


    ''Yes?''


    ''I''m sorry.''


    ''Why on earth are you sorry?''


    ''You have a show.''


    She laughs.


    ''You''re more important.''


    I release my grip on her to hold my head, hoping that putting pressure on my skull will reduce the pain. She withdraws and watches me.


    ''I''d get you some painkillers, but I don''t know what you were given. I don''t want to risk a bad drug interaction making you worse.''


    I hate that she''s right. I probably shouldn''t take anything for this.


    In an attempt to distract myself, I ask;


    ''How did you get here, anyway?''


    ''Lionel came to the house first thing in the morning - he said you asked for me just before you passed out, but he didn''t have any way to contact me.''


    I don''t remember doing that. I guess it sounds like something I''d do.


    ''Do you wanna talk about what happened?''


    I shake my head, then change my mind.


    ''Yeah. I think I do. I think I need to tell you.''


    She drags out one of the chairs tucked under the table and sits, expectantly.


    <hr>


    I order us delivery food for lunch and feel guilty. It costs so much. It''s still the least I can do, considering Casey stayed with me all morning.


    She regards the scattered shards of pottery on the table, eyes persistently drawn by the maze of coloured fragments.


    ¡®This doesn¡¯t look like something that you can really fix.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    ¡®He did this, didn¡¯t he.¡¯


    It wasn¡¯t a question.


    ¡®Lionel should have hit him harder.¡¯


    ''Lionel hit him?''


    ''Yeah. He broke a tooth.''


    I sweep the mess back into the box it came from, making space for us to eat. Casey moves to block me, like she wants to put the pieces away with more care.


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about this junk. The sculptures were just packed in boxes under the bed anyway. I didn¡¯t have space to put them anywhere else in my room. Now that they¡¯re broken I can throw them away and I won''t feel bad. I¡¯ll even have less junk for when we next move house. I should thank the bastard for making it easier.¡¯


    Casey laughs a little, more at the fact I''m trying to make light of the situation than at my joke.


    It had gotten to a point where I couldn¡¯t give my sculptures away, so I stopped making new ones. I couldn¡¯t keep making more if I didn¡¯t have places to store them, and I was never able to throw old art away easily, even if it was awful. I tried to let go of the worst pieces. I even managed to throw away a box full of sketchbooks. It put me into a state of depression that lasted a week.


    Giving my sculptures away was almost the same as throwing them away, it just felt a little better initially. My art wasn¡¯t ever treated with much respect once it was in other people''s care ¨C most things got broken or returned to me, or broken, then returned. Sometimes they just mysteriously vanished from people¡¯s houses and memories, as though they¡¯d never existed at all. That hurt more than tossing them myself.


    If no one would enjoy them¡­ then what was the point in making them?


    ¡®Can you re-make them?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think I¡¯d want to. I haven¡¯t worked with clay for a long time, and the feeling that inspired the original is completely gone. The replacement wouldn¡¯t have that¡­ I don¡¯t know... That sounds weird.¡¯


    Casey shakes her head and takes my hand. She holds it by the fingers; like she¡¯s going to lift it to her lips for a chaste, courtly kiss.


    ¡®Make new things then.¡¯


    I close my eyes.


    I have nowhere to work. Nowhere to store the things I make. I could scrounge materials easily enough¡­ but, to what end? Nobody wants my art.


    ¡®I don¡¯t think I have it in me right now.''


    A rap at the door interrupts my wallowing. Casey brings the food to the table. I survey the room as we eat ¨C it¡¯s not a great place to entertain with all my boxes of junk in the way. I can¡¯t even suggest we turn the TV on. There is too much in front of it, blocking the view.


    All I can do is talk.


    Casey flips through my folder of records.


    ''Is the letter telling me I''d been expelled from uni still in there?''


    Casey looks over.


    ''Why would it be in here? You told me you never wanted to see it again. I put it in with my academic transcripts.''


    I rest my head on the table beside my plate. I forgot I gave it to her. I''m not sure if I''m relieved to hear it was never in there.


    ''What do you think?''


    ''About all of this? I think he didn''t find anything he could use. Your life is too boring to even try to ruin. He needed something better, so he blackmailed you to get you alone. That way he could invent a scandal to really hurt you.''


    It makes sense. The Executioner probably suspected as much. I should have listened to her. I should have talked to Casey about my fears - she would have reassured me that she was still guarding my secret shame.


    It didn''t matter that none of that shit was true in the first place. I was expelled. That was the important thing. The fact it was for someone else''s crime is completely irrelevant.


    I hate myself.


    ¡®Tell me something funny. Or nice. Or happy.¡¯


    Casey thinks for a moment.


    ''I don''t know if you will find it funny, but Director Hollis...''


    <hr>


    Casey leaves shortly after lunch. She doesn''t want to go, but I insist. My head feels better. I don''t feel as sick. I think I just need to rest. She lets me know where and when the cast party will be before she goes. The production ends soon.


    There are eleven text messages waiting for me when I go back to the bedroom for my phone. That¡¯s a little intimidating.


    Jaq apologises for getting me kidnapped. Lionel asks how I am. Charles¡­ I don¡¯t want to read your messages. No sir.


    I timidly tap the message thread.


    <blockquote>


    You were right. I misunderstood. I¡¯m sorry.


    Let me make it up to you.


    I didn¡¯t mean to scare you.


    Sorry.


    </blockquote>


    I scowl at my phone. How do I even reply to that? Do I reply? ¡­I probably should say something. I don¡¯t know what to say. Do I need to appease him? Can I just tell him to fuck off?


    There¡¯s a decent chance anything I do will set off some other unreasonable chain of events. This man is unstable.


    I take a deep breath.


    Too early in the morning for this.


    I check the time ¨C 1:30 pm.


    It doesn''t really count as morning anymore.


    There''s a box with my name on it just inside the front door. I pick through the contents - it''s just the clothes that the hotel¡¯s laundry has kindly returned to me. I toss little paper laundry tags into the bin as I sort.


    I''m glad I didn¡¯t have much of a plan for today. I feel sluggish.


    I return the nice clothes to the wardrobe and consider changing into something more ''in character,'' but decide against it. I don¡¯t need to impress anyone if I¡¯m not going out. I can curl up on the couch with a book. I could do with something light and funny.


    <hr>


    I¡¯m near the end of the first chapter when I¡¯m alerted to another mystery delivery to my hotel room. Peering through the peephole, I see a mass of flowers. Carnations, roses, orchids, bluebells, and plenty I can¡¯t readily name. I let the delivery woman in, and she places the comically large flower arrangement on the floor beside the breakfast bar. The note just reads ¡®Sorry.¡¯


    It has to be from Charles.


    I sit cross-legged on the carpet, facing off against the botanical beast.


    Normally; I love flowers. Especially when they¡¯re in gardens, full of bees. There were carob trees near a house I lived in when I was at university ¨C carob flowers aren¡¯t particularly remarkable, nor is the scent all that appealing, but the trees would hum with bees. I loved sitting under them, just listening to the sound. It was soothing. These flowers are beautiful, but completely silent. They can¡¯t serve their purpose like this. They will produce no seeds. Feed no bees.


    Perhaps that¡¯s how I reply to Charles.


    Thank you for the pretty pot of dismembered plant genitalia. I assume it¡¯s from you.


    I hesitate to send a message like that. As much as I¡¯d like to point out the inappropriateness of the gift with sarcasm¡­ I mentally edit it.


    Thank you for the flowers. I assume they¡¯re from you.


    I don¡¯t want to use suggestive words with this man. He¡¯ll use them as an excuse to escalate his ridiculous behaviour.


    I reconsider typing up a message at all. I don''t want him to think I''ve forgiven him. I don''t want him to think I''m encouraging him. I don''t know if my polite message will be read as a ''please, continue to harass me.''


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    I get up. I¡¯m too full of anxious energy to rest now, and my hotel room doesn¡¯t feel safe with these weird gifts appearing at random. I don''t like that he knows where I am.


    He knows where my friends are too. They don''t know what kind of person he is.


    I''m not sure if it''s okay for me to tell them. I don''t know why Lionel didn''t tell Casey.


    I send a message to Casey.


    <blockquote>


    Are you a fan of Charles Pitch?


    </blockquote>


    Her reply is quick. She must have decided to keep her phone on her in case I needed her.


    <blockquote>


    OMG yes! Is he friends with Jaques? Are you going to meet him?


    </blockquote>


    I consider how to respond. I don''t want to accidentally word it in a way that tips her off.


    <blockquote>


    He is friends with Jaq. I met him at that party a week ago. He creeps me out. Said some really weird stuff. I was going to tell you, but forgot about it until all this business today. I guess better late than never?


    </blockquote>


    It''s hard trying to both keep the identity of my attacker a secret and warn people how dangerous he is. Anything too specific will make it obvious. Especially to Casey.


    <blockquote>


    Another one? Can¡¯t we just have one hot dude who¡¯s nice?


    </blockquote>


    It¡¯s not much¡­ but if he approaches her, she¡¯ll know she should be careful. I can¡¯t tell her everything until I know why we''re keeping his name a secret. Could be a legal thing. I don''t want to put my foot in a case against him if something like that is already being formulated.


    Though, if I want to protect Jaq and avoid scandal, I guess I personally can¡¯t risk it getting out. There''s a good chance some of his fans won''t believe my side of the story, even with the dash-cam video Lionel took. They might do something stupid like picketing Jaq''s shows. Plus, Charles would probably retaliate against all of us if it got out and he wasn''t immediately thrown in prison. It¡¯s probably safer this way.


    I hate uncertainty.


    To pass the time, I sort through my boxes. I need to reduce the volume of stuff I have in here. It''s starting to feel claustrophobic. Broken sculptures, damaged clothes I¡¯ve never gotten around to repairing, meaningless paperwork, old art supplies that probably can¡¯t be salvaged ¨C all these things can go into the hotel¡¯s garbage chute.


    Next time I check my phone, I¡¯ve got another slew of messages.


    I hate it.


    A knock at the door interrupts my resentful reading.


    It¡¯s Charles. His face is bruised. His lip has a couple of tiny adhesive sutures, enlarged by the fisheye lens of the peephole. He¡¯s holding a life-sized toy tiger. It must have cost a fortune.


    I didn¡¯t want this to escalate. I ignored his messages specifically because I didn''t want this to escalate.


    Resting my back against the door, I call his phone. He answers immediately.


    ¡®Hi, Jojo!¡¯


    ¡®What do you want?¡¯


    ¡®I just came by to apologise.¡¯


    ¡®You already sent flowers.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s not the same.¡¯


    I can feel every sinew and every tendon shrieking in terror. Anything I say, anything I do; it could set him off. I feel like I¡¯m going to break apart.


    ¡®You scared me. You still scare me. I don¡¯t want to be alone in a hotel room with you.¡¯


    He sighs, heavily.


    ¡®I know, I¡¯m sorry. I took it a bit too far.¡¯


    A bit?


    ¡®Look, I got you a stuffed animal friend. At least let me give him to you. I know you love animals.¡¯


    I don¡¯t want the stupid toy.


    ¡®That¡¯s why I was going to take you to the zoo yesterday. I wanted you to see what it was like to go on a date with someone who cares about you and pays attention to the things you like. So you¡¯d realise Jaq didn¡¯t. Then you got sick, so we left early and didn¡¯t get to visit the gift shop¡­ I went back and bought you a souvenir.¡¯


    I can¡¯t take this.


    ¡®You¡­ you had someone break into my house, rob us, scare all my housemates half to death, trample my sketchbooks, smash my sculptures¡­ then you blackmailed and kidnapped me, and you thought I¡¯d be able to have fun on a fucking trip to the zoo? A trip where you POISONED me.¡¯


    Shouldn¡¯t have said that. Shouldn¡¯t have said that. Nope. Too much. Stop, stop, stop. But I can''t stop.


    ¡®What the fuck is wrong with you?¡¯


    My voice is not my own. Someone else is speaking through me. I wouldn¡¯t have said that.


    ''I don''t want your apologies, I don''t want your thoughtless gifts. I didn''t ask for any of this! All I''m asking is that you fuck off and leave me alone!''


    I hear laboured breathing through the phone.


    He hangs up, but I hear his voice muffled through the door;


    ¡®Yeah¡­ I fucked that up.¡¯


    I hear him walk away. I''m too scared to check the peephole again.


    I need out.


    Jaq is busy. I text Lionel.


    <blockquote>


    Hey, any plans for the afternoon?


    </blockquote>


    His reply is fast - it seems like he must have been waiting for me to message him.


    <blockquote>


    Not really. Am I being summoned?


    </blockquote>


    I smile a little at the thought of being able to summon him like a genie.


    <blockquote>


    No, I just wanted an excuse to get out of this hotel room.


    </blockquote>


    No need to mention the visit from Charles until he gets here. I don''t want him to panic.


    <blockquote>


    Done. Be there soon.


    </blockquote>


    <hr>


    A shave-and-a-haircut knock brings me to the door. I know it¡¯s Lionel, even before I check the peephole. He¡¯s looking scruffier than I last saw him. Is he dressing down for me? That¡¯s¡­ kind?


    Once the door is open, my stomach drops. Charles left the horrible tiger.


    ¡®I didn¡¯t expect there to be a queue to get in.¡¯


    I grab the tiger by the head and drag it inside.


    ¡®Please don¡¯t be that rough with me ¨C my neck¡¯s delicate.¡¯


    I laugh sadly.


    ¡®Fucking Pitch.¡¯


    Lionel points at the flowers.


    ¡®That too?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. They came earlier.¡¯


    ¡®Jeez.¡¯


    He sizes up the bouquet.


    ¡®I think this thing is bigger than me.¡¯


    ¡®Do you happen to know anyone who¡¯d want it? I don¡¯t want it in here.¡¯


    Lionel reaches into the flowers to see how they¡¯re held together.


    ¡®Nope¡­ But you do.¡¯


    Huh?


    ¡®Help me carry this thing to the lift. We can come back for the cat. Unless you want to keep him?¡¯


    ¡®Absolutely not.¡¯


    <hr>


    We arrive at the theatre well before show time. I direct Lionel to the loading bay, and we carefully extract the flowers from the back seat of his car. Director Hollis watches us reassemble the display from his perch on the edge of the dock.


    ¡®Those for me?¡¯


    I laugh.


    ¡®They¡¯re for everyone. The production is mid-run, so I¡¯m guessing people might need a pick-me-up. Don¡¯t tell anyone they¡¯re from me.¡¯


    A grin crosses Hollis¡¯ face.


    ¡®A mystery like that will definitely get those flibbertigibbets all a-flutter.¡¯


    I run back to the car and haul out the tiger.


    ¡®This too.¡¯


    Hollis puts out his cigarette and takes the toy.


    ¡®I know exactly where to put this beastie.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    ¡®No, no. Thank you. Staying for the show? I think there are a few vacant seats.¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®I saw it once already. That¡¯s enough. You know much I hate this play.¡¯


    Tiger under one arm, Hollis opens the door back into the theatre.


    ¡®Your loss. Keep out of trouble, kids.¡¯


    Walking back to the car, Lionel says;


    ¡®He seems nice. Is he the janitor or something?¡¯


    I snicker.


    ¡®He¡¯s the director!¡¯


    Lionel winces.


    ¡®Shit, sorry.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s fine. I won¡¯t tell him you said that.¡¯


    Lionel glances back.


    ¡®He doesn¡¯t look anywhere near theatrical enough.¡¯


    ¡®What are you talking about?¡¯


    ¡®I dunno. He needs a moustache, a turtleneck, and one of those director hats.¡¯


    ¡®You mean a beret?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    I laugh. He deflects,


    ¡®Where to now, mademoiselle?¡¯


    It¡¯s too early for dinner, too late for lunch.


    ¡®Anywhere but the hotel.¡¯


    ¡®Your wish is my command.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m pretty sure genies aren¡¯t French.¡¯


    ¡®Eh.¡¯


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    ¡®For what?¡¯


    ¡®This was a great idea.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s okay¡­ I mean, when we came here last I felt bad because we didn¡¯t have flowers for your friends.¡¯


    ¡®You were still thinking about that?¡¯


    ¡®Sort of?¡¯


    <hr>


    We sit together in a small caf¨¦ attached to a bookstore ¨C my favourite kind of caf¨¦. There used to be a chain of bookstores that had an agreement with a caf¨¦ chain, and they¡¯d open together. As a teen I¡¯d sit at the caf¨¦ without ordering anything, reading a book I wasn¡¯t going to buy, and they wouldn¡¯t chase me away. It was the perfect way to stay out of the house as a broke and nerdy kid. Then the internet killed bookstores. Now arrangements like this are far too rare.


    Lionel¡¯s drink has a ludicrous tower of whipped cream on top of it. It looks like it might fall. He¡¯s carefully trying to dismantle it without destabilising it.


    I have tea. With agave syrup. Because fancy.


    Frowning with concentration, he says;


    ¡®She left me because I didn¡¯t have enough ambition.¡¯


    Ambition. I hate the word. Theoretically, it should be a good thing ¨C the desire to do something impressive is behind almost everything humans have ever achieved. My personal experiences with the word have never been positive. My projects were only described as ambitious if the speaker thought I wasn¡¯t capable of completing them. Other people were only described as ambitious if they were so driven to achieve their goals that they would happily hurt the people around them for their own gain. My parents wanted me to show ambition by sacrificing my mental health for a higher-paying job than either of them had.


    ¡®Ambition is overrated.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®You sound like you¡¯ve been dumped for the same thing.¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®No. I had parents that didn¡¯t want their daughter to be an artist.¡¯


    ¡®Ah.¡¯


    ¡®Art doesn¡¯t pay, they said. Get a real job, they said. If I got a B+ in math, I was in trouble. Don¡¯t you know all the good jobs require math skills?¡¯


    I stir my tea. Rumination is a trap drenched in honey. It feels so good to complain to someone who gets you. Quickly, that becomes all either of you talk about ¨C then you both wind up hoping you never see each other again because all either of you can do is moan about those awful times. It¡¯s still cathartic every time you get into a conversation¡­ but every time you walk away, you feel a little less satisfied. A little more of the rage and indignation stays with you.


    It¡¯s poison.


    ¡®Turns out they were both wrong. Only some of the good jobs require good math skills, and the math you need for good jobs is nothing like the garbage you learn in high school.¡¯


    The cream tower sags alarmingly. Lionel scrambles to catch it.


    ¡®Obviously, I didn¡¯t live up to their definition of ambition. You not having enough ambition implies that you had some kind of goal, but maybe one that Sophie thought was beneath you. I don¡¯t imagine you always wanted to be a professional deadbeat.¡¯


    Having caught the tower with his fork, he tries to right it without severing the top. It''s a struggle.


    ¡®I wanted to be a guitarist in a band.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s cool.¡¯


    ¡®I wasn¡¯t too bad either. I managed to sneak lessons in high school.¡¯


    ¡®Sneak lessons?¡¯


    ¡®Mother¡­ didn¡¯t want me playing a low-class instrument.¡¯


    ¡®Wow.¡¯


    I wish I could go back in time and slap her. No kid should have to hide taking guitar lessons. Being that dedicated to music lessons seems like something that should have been rewarded. Not that my childhood brush with music lessons ended all that well either.


    ¡®I wanted to play the bagpipes when I was in school.¡¯


    He laughs.


    ¡®Unfortunately, the chanter ¨C the practice pipe thing without the bag ¨C was super loud and unpleasant. Neither of my parents were enthused. I was made to return it to the friend I borrowed it from the following day.¡¯


    I sip my tea, then ask;


    ¡®What kind of music did you want to play?¡¯


    He grimaces.


    ¡®You know what kind.¡¯


    ¡®Oh wow, you really were the epitome of a poseur punk.¡¯


    He winces.


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry, if that¡¯s your ambition, we can fix that. I know some people who¡¯d be happy to have another guitarist they could call up in case one of theirs didn¡¯t show up¡­ or passed out halfway through a performance. So long as you don¡¯t let them know how wealthy your parents are, they probably won¡¯t tease you too much. If you demonstrate a little bit of reliability, next time one of them forms a new band I''m sure you''d get an invite.¡¯


    He sighs deeply.


    ¡®No¡­ It was a stupid childish dream.¡¯


    ¡®Then what¡¯s your smart adultish dream?¡¯


    He looks at me sharply.


    ¡®¡­I don¡¯t have one.¡¯


    And that¡¯s a tragedy.


    ¡®Don¡¯t want to be a travel writer? A composer? A journalist?¡¯


    He shakes his head.


    ¡®You could turn your hobbies into life goals. I hear professional gamers can make a ton of money.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not that good.¡¯


    ¡®Is there anything you¡¯d like to try doing?¡¯


    ¡®Not really.¡¯


    ¡®Carpentry? Sailing? Photography?¡¯


    No reply.


    This boy, with so much money, so many resources, so much privilege¡­ there¡¯s no reason he should be wallowing in depression like this. No reason at all.


    I can¡¯t forgive Frances. She¡¯s crushed both of her sons. They¡¯re both such broken men. Sure, Jaq can play like the devil, but he¡¯s so traumatised he responds to everything like he¡¯s about to die.


    Lionel may be carrying his trauma differently, but it¡¯s pervasive in every part of his life. It¡¯s broken his relationships. It¡¯s broken his spirit.


    I¡¯ll never forgive Frances. I can¡¯t forgive Isaac either. He let her do this to them.


    I don¡¯t know how to undo it.


    ¡®What about becoming a professional clown.¡¯


    He sputters, spraying his drink over the table.


    ¡®You could get good money doing children¡¯s birthday parties, and it would really piss off your mum.¡¯


    ¡®I nearly choked to death.¡¯


    ¡®Excellent. That means you survived, and you¡¯re stronger now. How do you feel about juggling? I can just barely manage it, so I wouldn¡¯t be much of a teacher¡­ but my housemate, Sal, is amazing.¡¯


    <hr>


    Lionel and I are on our way to the estate when Casey and the crew discover the flowers.


    <blockquote>


    OMG JO! Someone sent us these INSANE flowers!


    Hollis says he doesn¡¯t know who sent them


    THERE WAS A STUFFED TIGER IN THE DRESSING ROOM CLOSET


    IT FELL OUT ON MIKE


    THE NOTE SAID ¡®ROAR!¡¯


    </blockquote>


    I can¡¯t help but grin. Hollis¡¯ note was an inspired addition. I suspect the tiger is about to become a beloved mascot and source of stupid pranks. I read the messages out loud for Lionel. We¡¯re still giggling about it when we pull into the driveway.


    Jaq must be practising near a window ¨C I can hear him the moment I open the car door. The air feels cold and damp. I suspect it¡¯s about to rain. I gingerly climb out, careful not to drop any of the hot food I have on my lap ¨C I persuaded Lionel to stop at a fish and chip shop on the way, so we¡¯d have an excuse to decline dinner invitations from Frances and Isaac. A touch of genius, if I do say so myself.


    I spot Jaq on a balcony, silhouetted by the electric lights. The thin fabric of his shirt is lit up like a dim halo around his arms.


    ¡®He must be freezing.¡¯


    ¡®Probably.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a double genius for bringing hot food.¡¯


    When we reach the room Jaq is practicing in, he¡¯s standing right at the end of the balcony, facing out into the gardens. I call out to him;


    ¡®We brought you dinner.¡¯


    He turns, looking surprised.


    ¡®Hope you love fish and chips!¡¯


    I start to unpack the parcels on the floor next to the piano.


    ¡®There¡¯s a dining room you know¡­¡¯ he says from the balcony door.


    ¡®Shush. Sit down. Actually, no, shut that door, wash your hands, get a jumper, then sit down.¡¯


    He shivers, as though he only just noticed how cold it is.


    Unfolding the paper wrapping on the chips, I spread it out like a picnic rug. For most of my life, this was a rare gourmet treat. Something that I¡¯d splurge on if I had a bit of extra money that I didn¡¯t feel I needed to squirrel away into savings. Now, I suppose it will have to be a rare treat because it¡¯s fatty and salty, and everything that isn¡¯t fat or salt is 100% carbs.


    When I was a child, I dreamed of owning a chip shop so I could eat like this every day. My parents would shut me down, saying I¡¯d get sick of eating the same food again and again. I couldn¡¯t articulate the hypocrisy of that statement at the time¡­ though if I could have, it wouldn¡¯t have changed anything. Dinner with them was almost always peas, mash, and boiled chicken. No salt. Salt¡¯s bad for you.


    Eating at a chippy every day would have been a clear step up in dietary variety. The chips might be what they''re named for, but a chippy doesn''t just sell fried potato. I could have had a different burger for every day of the week, and saved the chips for special occasions.


    ¡®Did you forget plates?¡¯


    ¡®Plates? You¡¯re kidding. Next, you¡¯ll ask for a knife and fork.¡¯


    Jaq looks uncertain.


    ¡®You were going to ask for a knife and fork.¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t respond.


    ¡®Have you ever had chips before?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. As a side. Served on a plate.¡¯


    ¡®And you ate them with a fork?¡¯


    ¡®¡­yeah.¡¯


    I point at the paper.


    ¡®This paper is clean. Clean enough to wrap the food, clean enough to eat off.¡¯


    I waggle my fingers.


    ¡®These are excellent tools for eating.¡¯


    I attempt to pick up a chip, pretending it¡¯s slippery and I can¡¯t hold on to it.


    ¡®They are a bit complicated for beginners though.¡¯


    I chase the chip around the paper in front of me until I finally have it cupped in both hands.


    ¡®You¡¯ll get the hang of it.¡¯


    My expression is deadpan. Lionel¡¯s face is turning pink. He¡¯s doing a fine job of suppressing his laughter though.


    I stare, unblinking at Jaq.


    He starts to chuckle.


    ¡®What the hell are you doing?¡¯


    ¡®Eating chips with a pair of unsophisticated plebs.¡¯


    Lionel¡¯s resolve snaps, and he bursts into raucous laughter. Jaq¡¯s chuckle turns into a giggle. I grin.


    This is how it¡¯s meant to be.

 12. Pyrrhic Victory

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Tuesday</h2>


    I¡¯m getting comfortable waking up in the guest room. Probably a little too comfortable. I can¡¯t let the soft sheets and perfect mattress ruin me. I¡¯ll have to go back to a normal bed in a few weeks.


    Or maybe I won¡¯t? I don¡¯t know. I can probably afford to splash out and buy a nicer bed now. I probably won¡¯t go this far, though.


    I¡¯ve got some messages from Casey; she sent them last night. Must have been after the show.


    <blockquote>


    Hey Jo, um. Idk how to tell you this, but¡­ we¡¯ve been evicted.


    We just got the notice when we came home.


    So, we¡¯re going house hunting as soon as the last show¡¯s done.


    I know you¡¯ve kind of moved in with Jaques, but I thought I should ask¡­


    Do you want to come with us?


    You can still move with us if you want to, but let me know soon so we can look for a place with a room for you.


    </blockquote>


    Oh no.


    Oh no.


    Were we evicted because of the break-in?


    Our garbage landlord hated the fact that he was on the hook to pay for repair and maintenance work. The broken front door may have been the last straw for him.


    It''s all my fault.


    I already felt bad that they were robbed by someone who was targeting me, and now they''re being thrown out because of me.


    I don''t know how to tell Casey that there¡¯s no way I¡¯m permanently moving in with Jaq - it''ll sound suspicious if I''m not careful. She knows I''m staying in a hotel room and not his house, at least, but it was never explained. She might think he''s staying with me. She knows my financial situation better than anyone, so she knows I can''t afford a hotel room like that.


    But, that was my old financial situation.


    I have some money now. How much have I amassed?


    I go to check my bank account, then remember I don¡¯t have the phone with my banking app, let alone the account I used to use. I¡¯m not sure how to log in to my new account. I haven''t had to. I haven''t been so broke I needed to plan out how I''d spend every single cent in... well, days.


    I don¡¯t believe this. I have to ask my accountant if or when I can afford to buy a house. A house big enough for all my friends.


    I don¡¯t want to be a landlord.


    I want to protect them. I want them to be safe. When this is done¡­


    The money I''ve gained is going to change everything. No, it already has changed everything. I just didn¡¯t see it. I didn¡¯t think it through. I accepted the fruit without question, and now Hades has me in his claws forever.


    I hate this.


    I get up, stretching to try and work out the anxious strain that has already settled into my back and shoulders. I¡¯m not looking forward to today.


    I¡¯m certain there are people out there that wouldn¡¯t care about leaving their friends behind ¨C people that would take the money and use it to drag themselves up into whatever counts as the ''elite''. But, this is my family. Through everything, they¡¯ve been there. I don¡¯t want that to change. I don¡¯t want to create a hierarchy where my word feels like law, just because I own the house. I also don¡¯t want to leave them in the cold. The house we had was a miraculous find ¨C 5 bedrooms for that little? Sure, we didn¡¯t have heat or cooling, but the windows closed, the doors locked, the lights turned on, and the water ran. The house I lived in before that only had water and lights. Every night I lay awake with a cloud of mosquitos buzzing around my head, terrified some random drunk would wander in off the street.


    Could I lie to them? Pretend the house wasn¡¯t mine, but they somehow got an awesome deal on the rent ¨C I could ask for just enough to cover the bills. It might be vaguely believable... but they''re all well acquainted with how brutal the housing market is. They''d know something was fishy. They''d likely suspect that they were being used for something nefarious. They might not want to stay under those conditions.


    This is the kind of poorly thought-out plan Jaq would come up with. It¡¯s terrible.


    I know they''re not my responsibility. I just want to share my luck with them. Yes; I¡¯m working for this money¡­ but it was only luck that gave me the chance to earn this much. Jaq could have picked any of them.


    Well, any of the women. I doubt his parents would have accepted a boyfriend.


    I¡¯ll probably be paying for the stress I¡¯m enduring to earn this money for years to come¡­ my health wasn¡¯t exactly ideal to start with. But, I was in a good place¡­


    I shake my head, as though it¡¯s that easy to banish doubt and anxiety. I have a world to save. I can¡¯t let myself fall into the enticing embrace of hopeless anxious depression. I need to stay on top of my brain¡¯s misbehaviour.


    I don my dress battle armour in a meditative state, focused on the wisdom of a long-dead emperor. Things happen; you can¡¯t always control them. What you can control is how you interpret those things, and how you respond. There¡¯s power in that.


    I didn¡¯t make Charles break into my house¡­ that¡¯s not my fault. I¡¯m carrying the guilt because I haven¡¯t told them why it happened. I haven¡¯t given them the chance to decide if they want to hold me responsible.


    Stupid Roman. Couldn¡¯t he have told me how to feel better about hiding things to protect people from getting hurt by vengeful pop stars?


    I think I may have to tell them.


    Can I trust them to keep it secret?


    I don¡¯t know.


    I pick up my phone, feeling calmer.


    <blockquote>


    Of course I want to move with you guys. Don¡¯t tell anyone, but Jaq lives with his parents.


    I want to try to persuade him to move with us too. And maybe his brother. It¡¯s not healthy for them to be so sheltered at their age.


    I mean, if they¡¯re welcome to come too. Don¡¯t feel like you have to say yes. If you say no, I¡¯m still moving with you.


    </blockquote>


    This is hard to do over text.


    I want to say more. I can¡¯t. Not yet.


    <hr>


    I stand in the estate¡¯s garden. I came out here to think. It isn''t really helping; I feel so exposed.


    I can¡¯t escape the scrutiny of the house. It sees me wherever I walk. It feels like I¡¯m in a gilded panopticon ¨C the dark, glittering windows threatening me with uncertainty though I stand in this tranquil garden full of colour and light. I shouldn¡¯t feel this way.


    I hear the sound of secateurs clipping something and follow the sound. It leads to a woman in high vis overalls delicately trimming a border.


    I never see the estate staff unless they¡¯re serving food. I¡¯ve never had the chance to talk to them.


    Would it be wrong to?


    Ugh. This is pointless.


    ¡®Hello!¡¯


    She looks up and grins.


    ¡®Hi!¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re doing such beautiful work.¡¯


    ¡®Cheers. Just doing my job.¡¯


    The grin widens ¨C though she turns back to her task. I desperately want to have a conversation with someone I¡¯m not terrified of, working for, or hiding things from. I don¡¯t want to be a nuisance though.


    ¡®Did you design the garden?¡¯


    ¡®No, it¡¯s too formal for my tastes. I just maintain it.¡¯


    ¡®Ah¡­ um. Do you like working here?¡¯


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡®It suits me fine. Regular work. Something I¡¯m good at. I get to be outdoors.¡¯


    It actually sounds wonderful. She glances up at me;


    ¡®How about you? What do you do?¡¯


    I¡¯m a little startled by the question.


    ¡®Not much right now. I build sets, but unless something breaks, I won''t be needed until work on the next production starts.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯d like to have inbuilt holidays like that. Gardens keep needing things whether it¡¯s raining or blazing hot.¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®The pay isn¡¯t good.¡¯


    Less than minimum wage, considering how much extra time I have to put in. In artistic fields like mine, you¡¯re expected to do what you do for the love of it, and be grateful. A dozen others would push me down the stairs if it¡¯d get them my place.


    ¡®And directors can be fickle. One day they want the sets to express cheer and whimsy, the next they want a total redesign with nothing but pain and ennui.¡¯


    She laughs. I realise I haven¡¯t introduced myself.


    ¡®Ah, sorry, I¡¯m Jo.¡¯


    ¡®I know who you are. You¡¯re Jaques¡¯ secret missus.¡¯


    Of course she knows.


    ¡®I¡¯m Emily.¡¯


    She straightens up and offers me her garden-gloved hand. I shake it. Her grip is firm but friendly.


    ¡®News like that gets around the house faster than a rabbit with its tail on fire. You¡¯ll have to get used to people knowing more about you than you know about them.¡¯


    It¡¯s probably sage advice.


    ¡®I¡¯d rather not get used to it. This is all so weird to me. If I get used to it, then¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡¯


    ¡®Sounds like you¡¯re overthinking it.¡¯


    Story of my life, sister.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m distracting you. It¡¯s rude of me to charge over and start talking at you while you¡¯re working and you can¡¯t escape.¡¯


    She laughs.


    ¡®It¡¯s fine. It can get boring out here by myself.¡¯


    I still feel awkward.


    And, the mansion is still watching me¡­ but it¡¯s not just Frances¡¯ that I¡¯m worried about. Every window might mask the presence of dozens of pairs of anonymous eyes.


    I shiver.


    How do people live like this?


    ¡®¡­well, thank you for talking to me. It was nice meeting you, Emily.¡¯


    ¡®You too.¡¯


    I walk back up the path, my skin crawling with the knowledge that, whether I like it or not, whether it¡¯s intended or not, my every movement is under surveillance.


    I need to leave.


    Inside the house, strains of Jaq¡¯s music waft. Here and there I catch a few bars, before intervening walls and unfavourable drafts carry the sound elsewhere.


    He¡¯s busy. Always busy.


    I knock on Lionel¡¯s door.


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s me.¡¯


    Rustling. The door opens.


    ¡®What¡¯s up?¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m a giant baby and this giant house gives me the creeps.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think it¡¯s haunted.¡¯


    I glance down the hall, very aware that people might be gossiping about how much time I spend with Lionel.


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t have to be haunted to be creepy.¡¯


    ¡®You want a lift back to the hotel?¡¯


    ¡®Please.¡¯


    Within minutes I¡¯m holed up in the comfortable confines of Lionel¡¯s car.


    ¡®Doing okay?¡¯


    I shrug.


    ¡®I don¡¯t really know.¡¯


    ¡®You should take a break. It¡¯s only a few days until Jackie¡¯s show.'' He pauses a moment before continuing; ''I¡¯m going to guess Mother will pull her usual stunt.¡¯


    ¡®What stunt?¡¯


    ¡®Once it¡¯s over and the cameras are off, she¡¯ll shred Jackie¡¯s performance. He''ll be catatonic for a day at least.¡¯


    She is a gorgon. Euryale, the middle sister, could kill with her voice.


    ¡®Why?¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t answer. I watch the traffic through the window. In my mind, I had replaced the image of her as a devil with the gorgeous little girl from her early photographs. Now; she morphs back into a monster.


    She looked so ecstatic hidden behind the hulking piano. Her little button nose planted in the middle of the happiest face a child could make. I can''t hold on to that cherubic visage. It slips out of focus, and all I see are teeth and scales.


    ¡®Does she still play the piano?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know. The last time I remember her playing it¡­ I can¡¯t have been more than six.¡¯


    Perhaps she fell out of love with music.


    I wonder if she misses it?


    I sigh. It¡¯s a long time to go without something you enjoy. The piano is right there in the house - if she missed it, she could easily find a quiet moment to sit down and play.


    ¡®Did she sing?¡¯


    Lionel laughs.


    ¡®No.¡¯


    He drops me off at the hotel. I walk to the lift, but I¡¯m stopped before I reach it.


    ¡®Ma¡¯am, there are¡­ a number of packages for you.¡¯


    I feel my insides sink through the floor, dragging me down. My soul is a fish, caught on Hades¡¯ hook, being pulled into the underworld...


    No. The metaphor doesn¡¯t work.


    I restrain my penchant for melodrama.


    The packages are brought up to my room. I don¡¯t even want to open them. They come with unknown strings attached. They have to be from Charles. I told him I didn''t want his gifts. I don¡¯t know what Charles wants from me. It could be nothing more than forgiveness¡­ but, the weight in my stomach says otherwise.


    I remember the insecurity I felt when he brought the tiger to my door. I remember feeling as though my safe space was being invaded.


    It¡¯s not even my space. It¡¯s a hotel room. But where else can I go to be safe? It¡¯s not like my empty room in the house we¡¯ve been evicted from can comfort me. Not anymore.


    Nothing is right. Nothing is normal.


    I tear open the first box. It¡¯s smaller than the others. Relatively light. Under the skull and crossbones print tissue paper, I find real leather. Shiny metal studs in perfect rows. Sleeves that are already equipped with popular punk band patches. I turn it over. The back is embroidered with a huge, generic, grotesque skull. It¡¯s everything I hate about corporate co-option of counterculture.


    I don¡¯t know if sending these things back to him will do anything. I don¡¯t even know where to send them to. I suppose I could look up his address online. Or, I could have Jaq collect all this stuff and dump it on his doorstep.


    The jacket still has the tag.


    I check my phone, looking for an outlet that sells this brand ¨C there¡¯s one not too far away. I wonder what the odds of returning it for cash are like. Probably very slim. Still, if I can convert it to cash, I can use the money on something I do want, and he''ll never have the satisfaction of seeing me with something he bought for me.


    I open the next box.


    This one gives me pause.


    An odd assortment of different sculpting mediums. Air-dry clay, polymer clay, a ¡®just add water¡¯ papier-mach¨¦ compound. It¡¯s like he went to an art store and took one of everything from the sculpting section. He probably did.


    I consider sculpting a hand with the middle finger raised.


    I could send it to him in an un-padded envelope, so when it arrives he feels compelled to glue the shattered pieces back together. Depending on how badly it¡¯s broken it might take a while before he realises that he¡¯s repairing an insult to himself.


    It¡¯s a petty thought, but it makes me smile.


    I spread the awful tissue paper over the table and tear open one of the packets of clay. I don¡¯t like working with air-dry clay. It dries too fast, it¡¯s brittle, and it smells of chemicals¡­ but, it¡¯s more than I¡¯ve had in my hands for far too long. I sculpt a little mushroom and place it on the table.


    It¡¯s a simple shape. I¡¯m feeling uninspired.


    Soon, the first is joined by fourteen more. A field of boring little white mushrooms. I rearrange them into a fairy ring. It would look better if the tissue paper were green.


    I¡¯m turning twee.


    I glance over at the kitchenette and sigh. I¡¯m going to get dusty white fingerprints over everything if I¡¯m not careful.


    I wash my hands with dish soap, then rinse the fingerprints off the taps and the soap bottle. I don¡¯t have anything to help clean under my nails.


    It¡¯s fine for now.


    I open the next box. Paint, brushes, and sculpting tools.


    He listened to me, at least. Perhaps he can be reached. He heard that I didn''t want the things he''d given me already and tried to work out what I really wanted. He¡¯s taking a scattershot approach, but...


    I¡¯m making excuses for an irrational beast. I can¡¯t let my guard down. I can''t forgive him. He poisoned me.


    I told him what I wanted was for him to leave me alone.


    He didn''t want to hear that part.


    Still, it felt good to make something. Even if it¡¯s as pointless as fifteen little mushrooms.


    My anxiety has dissolved into resignation. This is my life. I can¡¯t control these external forces now. I can only choose how to think; how to respond.


    Maybe I can make something worthwhile from all this. That way it hasn¡¯t been wasted.


    Before I open anything else, I send a photo of the packages to the Executioner.


    She tells me not to open any more packages from him. She''ll sort out having everything returned.


    I suppose it was too much to think I''d be able to convert this into something for my benefit. I should know by now that I can''t have my own way.


    Why does everything have to suck?


    Wait.


    Does it suck?


    Glancing over the stuff Charles sent, I come to the conclusion that I could afford to buy all this myself.


    I couldn''t before.


    The thought stuns me more than even thinking about buying a house did. Buying a house is so much more abstract to me than these little luxuries. A house is an unfathomably expensive item. That packet of air dry clay I wasted making stupid little mushrooms probably cost more than a week''s worth of food used to cost me... and now I can just throw money away on stuff like that.


    I should go back to organising my belongings. I need to downsize as much as I can while I have the leisure to do it at my own pace.


    I can be ruthless. I don''t have to save every odd button just in case I need to make a repair, because I don''t have to make repairs anymore. I have money for new clothes.


    I don''t have to keep any of the things I won''t use with reasonable frequency, and I can use my nice things - no more squirrelling away a special shirt or dress for the rare occasion when I''m invited to a baptism, wedding, or funeral.


    Outfitting myself appropriately for those sorts of niche occasions won''t break the bank any more.


    I hold up my special funeral trousers. They were cheap, but they look good. My casual everyday clothes now are nicer than any of the things I put aside for those sorts of events in the past.


    When I first started sorting through my belongings a few days ago, I only discarded things that were definitely worthless. That choice was a remnant of the conservative approach I was forced to take to my entire life. I have money now. I can be at least this reckless.


    It''s not even really recklessness anymore.


    I pile up three garbage bags full of clothes by the door. Those can be donated. I never wanted them. Now, I don''t need them either.


    I feel so weird. I''m not sure how to describe it.


    Free?


    It''s not really freedom.


    There''s guilt and fear; euphoria and optimism. I''m so scared that this will all go away... but I know that there''s more money coming. All I have to do is keep playing my role. I''m playing it so well that Frances welcomed me into the family with her weird staged photo ritual. Even Jaq''s obsessive and controlling ''best friend'' believed it enough that he tried to destroy me.


    This is working.


    Somehow, despite everything, it''s working out just fine.


    I sit down among the boxes of things I need to carry out to the garbage and weep.


    I don''t even know why.

 13. Small Losses

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Wednesday</h2>


    The buzzing of my phone frightens me awake. Somehow it got under my pillow in the night. I must have knocked it off the nightstand in my sleep.


    ¡®Hello?¡¯


    ¡®Hey, I¡¯m coming to pick you up in about an hour.¡¯


    Jaq sounds nervous. Shouldn¡¯t he be practicing? There¡¯s barely any time left before his concert, and he¡¯s had to waste so much of the past couple of weeks on pointless parties and our fake relationship.


    ¡®I don¡¯t remember there being anything planned for today?¡¯


    ¡®Please just be ready to go.¡¯


    ¡®Okay boss.¡¯


    There¡¯s a sharp intake of breath before he hangs up. Did that upset him? Surely not. I shake my head. At least when I was crammed in with a household of theatre nerds, the silliness was all in fun. Surprises weren¡¯t dangerous.


    Jaq¡¯s¡­ eccentricities¡­ his lack of communication¡­ none of that has really lead to much in the way of happy surprises for me.


    And, he didn¡¯t tell me the dress code.


    I lethargically make my way to the shower. He¡¯ll have to put up with whatever comes out of that closet first. I¡¯m not in the right headspace to negotiate with him for vital information he doesn¡¯t feel like being upfront about.


    I¡¯m still yawning by the time he texts me that he¡¯s waiting for me to come down. I shuffle my feet into some loafers and walk out the door.


    It''s not that early - I stayed up later than I meant to. I was filled with a manic drive to sort and tidy that didn''t let up until I''d decimated my belongings. What remains is only that which is most beloved, most useful, and most precious. I''ll have to make a few trips to donate all the things I don''t want anymore. There''s so much of it.


    I see Jaq through the lobby doors, waiting in his car just across from the hotel. I guess he must be impatient to get somewhere. I have to stop for the traffic to clear enough that I can cross. I hate this road. I especially hate that there¡¯s no foot crossing.


    He doesn¡¯t even wait for me to get my seatbelt on properly before he starts to drive.


    ¡®What¡¯s the emergency?¡¯


    I try to analyse his expression. I think he¡¯s somewhere between fury and terror. There¡¯s a certain set to the eyebrows and a flush to his cheeks. He¡¯s not responding.


    ¡®Talk to me; I can¡¯t help if you don¡¯t tell me what¡¯s wrong.¡¯


    Still no reply. He¡¯s in a grey-blue suit with a tie. It doesn¡¯t look like he¡¯s decided to go on an impromptu camping trip, so there¡¯s that at least.


    Not that he would.


    Maybe another thing with his parents?


    ¡®Sorry, Jo.¡¯


    Go on.


    ¡®¡­I needed to get out of the house.¡¯


    And¡­


    ¡®I¡¯m¡­¡¯


    His knuckles are white. He¡¯s clinging to the steering wheel like it¡¯s the throat of someone that wronged him.


    I¡¯m not sure he¡¯s going to be able to talk to me. Not anytime soon, at least.


    I close my eyes and lean back in my seat.


    I could be patient, let him seethe in silence¡­ or I could try to distract him. If I distract him, he might calm down faster, and I might get some answers.


    ¡®Tell me; how do you select the songs for a set?¡¯


    He glances at me, confused. I continue.


    ¡®I mean, it probably depends on a lot of factors. Location, time of year, the crowd that is likely to show up¡­ but is there anything deeper to it? You pick songs with history, or that tell a story, or follow a theme¡­ or just songs you like?¡¯


    He looks annoyed, but he answers;


    ¡®¡­I don¡¯t know. Most of the time they¡¯re chosen for me.¡¯


    ¡®Is that okay with you?¡¯


    He falls silent again.


    ¡®Sorry, that was probably too personal.¡¯


    ¡®No, it¡¯s fine.¡¯


    We sit as buildings flash past. We''re a thousand miles apart, though we¡¯re both encapsulated in this tiny glass and metal bubble.


    I did my best. I don¡¯t want to push too much more.


    After a few minutes, the car slows. We pull over near a beach. Not many people out today ¨C too cold. He doesn¡¯t move to get out, so I stay put.


    ¡®How would you choose songs?¡¯ he asks.


    Hm.


    ¡®I suppose I¡¯d want to tell a story. There¡¯s not necessarily obvious text in music like yours¡­ but any kind of music can carry you through an emotional journey. Maybe I¡¯d tell a story about something I was going through at the time¡­ or something I wanted to see happen in the future¡­ and maybe my fear that it wouldn¡¯t come to pass.¡¯


    Unsatisfied with the silence that floods back into the car, I keep talking.


    ¡®Not everyone would get it. They might just hear nice tunes. Those that did hear a narrative wouldn¡¯t necessarily build the same story in their heads¡­ but that¡¯s okay. People listening would make it their own. Pull the emotion in the music back through their own experience of the world. They would become co-creators via their interpretation.¡¯


    He smirks.


    ¡®That¡¯s a load of shit.¡¯


    Nope. I didn¡¯t ask for this.


    I''m trying to comfort him. His cruel tone is completely uncalled for.


    ¡®They¡¯re not the ones playing until the strings snap, their shoulders seize up, their elbows cramp, the nerves in their neck are crushed. They¡¯re not the ones that have to play until their fingers stop working.¡¯


    I watch him as he speaks, still clamped onto the steering wheel. His face is sweaty. His breathing ragged. There''s no more fear. Only rage is left.


    The fear that escaped him skulks across the back seat, before sinking its claws into me.


    ¡®I¡¯m the one working, I¡¯m the one fucking dying for their enjoyment.¡¯


    The fear sinks itself deeper, settling in around my skeleton.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡®I¡¯m the one who can¡¯t fucking catch a single note of fucking recognition for all the fucking effort from fucking anyone.¡¯


    My bones are carved from fear, crystalline and black. I feel like they want to break out of my skin.


    ¡®You think they get to be co-creators when they do nothing but listen to the pretty tunes etched into my brain with blood and pain?¡¯


    I recognise the panic a little too late. I clamp my hand around my wrist, forcing my nails into my skin. Extremes of physical sensation can help relieve the extremes of emotional distress, but no matter how hard I press, the mental pain of the irrational fear does not let go.


    ¡®WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW, JO?¡¯


    I try to sink into the chair, to disappear.


    I can leave.


    I fling the car door open and release the seatbelt simultaneously.


    I can¡¯t feel anything below my knees, but somehow I run. Jaq shouts after me. I have no idea what he¡¯s saying. I run, and run, and run, I feel like my chest cavity is entirely empty ¨C one giant lung; the cold, dry air a stark contrast to the mess of agony and numbness. I dodge between buildings and through service roads, little lanes full of graffiti. All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. One leg buckles, and I fall, instinctively tucking my head in to roll. I can¡¯t get up. Lying in brackish water in the middle of a dirty alley. My vision is a swirl of static, flashing lights against black. I smell decay.


    I hear thumping in my ears, a tempest of deafening sound. I can hear glass shattering; shouting. I can almost feel the press of people surrounding me, jeering and taunting.


    An echo of something long forgotten. Something carefully repressed.


    Outside myself, now, I see myself cold and alone in the alley. I realise I probably had nothing to fear. Jaq wouldn''t hurt me. He likely couldn''t hurt me if he tried. He''s not dangerous. Just broken. As broken as me.


    My body remembered all the harm done to me by people before him; the emotional, instinctive parts of my brain heard the shouting, saw his expression, and calculated a high probability of violence. It didn''t understand that he''s not one of those people. Thus; My emotional brain removed me from the situation before the logical part of my brain was even able to comprehend it.


    My powers of reason have caught up now. I know he''s probably worried and confused about what happened.


    I''ve been under so much pressure - I was stretched thin, but I was coping. I thought I had it under control. Then; this stupid little tantrum broke the floodgates.


    I should have been able to withstand an outburst like that. I''ve been shouted at more times than I care to remember. Normally, I can keep all the hurt inside.


    I gently lift myself out of the water. My dress is ruined.


    I can''t feel it yet, but my hands are scraped and bloody.


    I crawl to a wall, grip the ancient frame of a grubby doorway as best I can, and drag myself upright. I don''t feel completely real. Just cold. I don''t think I''ve felt this cold since the time I lived in an abandoned storage shed tucked away at the back of a defunct construction site. That was years ago. Before I even went to uni.


    I need to wash my wounds. I''ll get an infection if I don''t.


    Then, I need to change my clothes.


    Practical things that I can do.


    I glance around the alley. I''m having a little trouble focusing on anything. It''s all so hazy.


    I think I left my bag in Jaq''s car.


    Fortunately, I find my phone in my coat pocket. I can at least pay for something clean to wear.


    Leaning heavily on the wall, I make my way around to the front of the building. It''s a shop of some kind. I''m beyond feeling shame at being seen like this; I need to wash my hands.


    The doorbell jingles as I step up into the store. Warm air envelops me. A worried voice calls out;


    ¡®Miss? Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?¡¯


    My vision swims, dazzled by the bright lights until I finally find focus on the worried face in front of me. Dark eyes peer into mine.


    ''Can I use your bathroom?''


    ''Of course! It''s just over here!''


    I''m led behind the counter, past a fryer, and into a tiny room with a sink. I marvel at the fact that I can''t smell the hot oil. There''s just... nothing.


    ''I''m going to go let my boss know you''re in here. Sing out if you need anything.''


    And with that, the dark-eyed man leaves me alone.


    I approach the mirror above the sink. It''s old - the silver backing is peeling off the glass around the edges, leaving leprous-looking dark spots creeping in towards the center.


    I''m a mess.


    I shrug off my coat and hang it on the back of the door. I can see I''ve skinned my elbows. I turn on the tap with some difficulty. Once my hands are under the water, I begin to feel the pain that was so blissfully absent before.


    I wet a piece of paper towel and dab at my face. The muck comes away easily with warm water and soap. I think all the blood must have come from my hands. I don''t seem to have any facial wounds.


    The heels of both hands are grazed and raw, but only one hand has an actual cut. The gash is long, starting shallow and ending deep. It bleeds when I wash it. I may need stitches.


    Gentle tapping at the door is accompanied by a worried female voice;


    ''Hello? Girl? I bring a first aid kit for you.''


    I open the door. An older woman with greying hair holds out a bag with a red cross emblazoned across the front of it - once I take it, she produces a bundle of fabric she was holding under her other arm.


    ''I bring dry clothes too. Daniel says you need them.''


    She drapes the bundle over the top of the first aid kit, then closes the door on me. I hear the man from earlier;


    ¡®Take your time in there. We¡¯re packing up for the day, so there aren¡¯t any customers around right now.¡¯


    I suppose he''s Daniel.


    The bathroom is too small to comfortably change clothes. The floor is grimy and uneven; every tile is cracked. Every crack harbours thick black gunk in the groove where brooms and scrubbing brushes can''t easily reach. I''m not sure I should put any of the things I''m holding on the ground. I rest them on the edge of the sink and hope that they don''t fall.


    I sit down on the toilet lid and try to pull off my dress. The water makes it heavy ¨C it clings to my skin. I eventually find the zip and fumble with it. My fingers are too stiff for such a delicate task. After a short battle, I have it undone and shrug the soggy, torn, filthy mess onto the floor.


    Mostly naked now, I see my scraped knees. I haven''t cleaned them. I finally start to cry. The tears are fat and painful.


    With the first aid kit open on my lap, I daub my cuts and scrapes with antiseptic. The smaller cuts are covered with sticking plasters. I don''t want to ruin the borrowed tracksuit with my blood.


    By the time I''ve cleaned myself up and changed clothes, I feel a tiredness that is all-encompassing. I close the first aid kit, gather my things, and shakily open the door.


    I see the older woman sitting at a desk in the back room. She¡¯s typing something into a spreadsheet. Daniel, the dark-eyed man, is there too. He''s seated at a small table, doing something on his phone. He¡¯s younger than her. I think there¡¯s a family resemblance between them, but I¡¯m not sure.


    ¡®Um. Thank you.¡¯


    My voice is hoarse.


    Both look up. The woman smiles, but her eyes show worry.


    ¡®You looking much better. Hungry now?¡¯


    ¡®Thank you¡­ I. Yeah. Yes, please.¡¯


    She gives the man a look, and he gets up. Crossing the little staffroom, he picks up a take-out bag.


    ''These are just leftovers from today. We can''t sell them tomorrow, so eat as much as you want.''


    I probe around in my coat''s pockets looking for the phone.


    ''I can pay you for...''


    The woman flaps a hand dismissively at me.


    ''No need to pay. Just take, ok?''


    I know I shouldn''t, but I feel ashamed. Their kindness shouldn''t go unrewarded.


    The man says;


    ¡®Let me get my keys and I¡¯ll take you home, or wherever you want to go.¡¯


    I nod, resting against the doorframe.


    The car I¡¯m taken to is tiny and dented. It¡¯s been keyed more than a few times. The upholstery is shredded. Empty take-out containers are cleared off the passenger seat so I can sit. The door is closed for me.


    ¡®What¡¯s your address?¡¯


    I don¡¯t know the hotel¡¯s address. I don¡¯t want to go there anyway. I give him my old home address. Hopefully, someone will be there to let me in.


    It seems like I blink, and we arrive at my house. The man offers to walk me to the door. I¡¯m still unsteady on my feet, so I accept. The door remains broken, but it swings open easily when I touch it. The hinges groan.


    ¡®Jo?¡¯


    Suddenly Laurie is almost carrying me to the couch. He¡¯s a barrage of questions, blurring into each other, thousands of tiny fists I can¡¯t withstand. The dark-eyed man looks awkward. He places a bulging plastic bag just inside the front door.


    ¡®This is your clothes. I¡¯m just going to put it here.¡¯


    He turns to leave.


    ¡®Wait - Thank you, Daniel?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. No problem.¡¯


    ¡®How do I get... um. I didn''t catch her name. How do I get her clothes back to her?¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about it.¡¯


    He smiles awkwardly and is gone.


    Laurie piles blankets and pillows around me. A mug of hot chocolate appears in my hands.


    The best.


    ¡®What happened? Or¡­ don¡¯t you wanna talk? I can stop asking.¡¯


    ¡®No¡­ I¡­¡¯


    I run back over what happened in my mind. Can I say any of it? Jaq shouted at me, but he didn''t do anything to hurt me. If I say that, it''ll sound like I''m defending an abuser.


    ¡®I think I had a panic attack.¡¯


    ¡®Must have been a bad one.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah¡­¡¯


    I push it out of my mind. Hot chocolate. Warm blankets. I''m safe at home.


    When I finally check my phone, I discover that the screen is cracked, even through the screen protector. It still works, but it''s no longer perfect and clean; completely without blemish. I feel a little disappointed. I haven''t even had it for a month.


    Now it looks like something I would own.


    I start to cry again, and Laurie rushes over to hug me.


    ''Shh. You''ve been in the wars, duck. You''re safe now.''


    I''m too tired to cry properly, but the tears won''t stop.


    ''I need to tell Jaq where I am...''


    ''There''s no rush. It won''t hurt him to wait an extra minute. Take your time to settle.''


    I''ve been gone for days. I haven''t spoken a single word to anyone but Casey since the break-in. I abandoned this place, and yet Laurie is still treating me like a cherished member of his family. He doesn''t know I''m the reason for the break-in or the subsequent eviction.


    I don''t deserve this kindness.


    I''ve been off, living in the lap of luxury. Galavanting with celebrities and wealthy beneficiaries. I''m a viper in this nest of blameless chicks.


    I feebly try to push Laurie away, but he holds me tighter.


    ''It''s okay, duckie. I''m here. Tell me what you need.''


    I can''t form words. I just cry.

 14. Confessions

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Thursday</h2>


    I wake up on a familiar threadbare couch, in a familiar decrepit old house. Feeling stiff, I shuffle to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Without looking, I open the cupboard, bobbing my head automatically as the door swings past, only glancing up to locate a cup. It''s a well-rehearsed dance I''ve done thousands of times before. I wouldn''t call it graceful. Efficient might be a better descriptor.


    ¡®Jo¡­ are you okay?¡¯


    Casey stands in the kitchen doorway.


    ¡®¡­mostly.¡¯


    She hugs me.


    ¡®Laurie said you came home really tired and asked to crash on the couch.¡¯


    Champion. I didn''t even ask him to cover for me.


    ''Did you and Jaq have a fight?¡¯


    I have to think about the question. I''m still half asleep. My thoughts are jumbled and foggy.


    We didn''t fight. I''d have had to retaliate somehow for it to have been a fight.


    ¡®No.''


    She lifts up my scraped hands to examine them.


    ¡®I fell while I was running.¡¯


    ''Why were you running?''


    I shut my eyes. I don''t want to explain myself. Sorting out what''s safe to say and what isn''t... it''s so much effort.


    I wanted to believe I was a better liar than an actor. I think I''m really just bad at both.


    ''Let me have my tea first. I need to drink something before I die of dehydration.''


    She hugs me again. I think she¡¯s crying. Tears drip down my face onto her ragged dressing gown. We stand in the kitchen like that until her phone beeps, and she lets me go. I take my lukewarm tea back into the lounge room.


    I should probably check my phone too.


    I sit down on the couch and find the thing on the floor. It barely has any battery left. There are so many messages and missed calls. I can''t bring myself to read through them all.


    I put the phone down again. I regard the plastic bag of soggy clothes ¨C it''s an acceptable distraction. I try to untie it without ripping it, but I fail miserably. There is a take-out menu and a serviette at the bottom of the bag. At least I¡¯ll be able to return the borrowed clothes.


    I briefly consider asking Casey to read my messages first to screen them for me. She used to do that when I was still at uni. Just before I got kicked out for ''academic misconduct.'' She''d ''archive'' the ones from the bastard''s little friends, telling me how I was ruining his life, and how they''d make sure I ''got what I deserved'' if I didn''t stop. It made the archived messages section on my phone a particularly toxic swamp to browse through. I couldn''t delete them, though. I needed the records in case the police got involved.


    I''m almost certain his friends knew what he was doing. That made it worse. Why would anyone go that far for someone they knew was guilty? They make themselves complicit. Why did they think it was worth it? It''s not like they got money or fame from him. I don''t understand the power he had over others.


    I can''t do that now. I''m not innocent this time. I''ve got actual secrets to hide - secrets that could endanger someone else''s livelihood. Jaq''s relying on me to keep him safe.


    I pick up the phone again.


    Most of the messages are from Jaq¡­ some from Charles, and a couple from Lionel.


    Lionel seems like the safest place to start.


    The first new message is a warning that Jaq is in a mood.


    Might have been helpful if I''d read it before he got to the hotel. I could have asked Lionel for advice on how to manage the situation. I imagine he''d have told me to ignore it until Jaq calmed down on his own.


    Not all that helpful.


    Jaq''s message chain starts with a deluge of apologies. He didn¡¯t mean to shout; he''s sorry he scared me.


    He tries to explain himself; he says he''s under ''a lot of pressure.''


    Yes, Jaq. I know. We''re both under pressure. This situation sucks.


    He confirms my suspicion; Frances had berated him for a solid twenty minutes that morning.


    She''s sadistic.


    I''m not sure how she thinks going on a long-winded tirade about all Jaq''s inadequacies will help him improve his performance. Perhaps she''s deluded enough to think that she''s saying things he needs to hear.


    Perhaps she''s just compelled to hurt him.


    It''s so easy to do. The boy has no defence. He''s nothing but soft underbelly. I''ve been tempted to bully him.


    <blockquote>


    I didn¡¯t mean to take it out on you


    I need you


    I can¡¯t do this without you


    Pease come back


    I''ll pay you more


    </blockquote>


    I groan. The idiot shouldn¡¯t be texting that. I warned him about leaving a trail.


    I delete the message.


    I rest my head on my arms. This is too much.


    Casey sits on the couch beside me.


    ''What''s going on?''


    Without lifting my head, I say;


    ''I think Frances - Jaq''s Mum - sort of set off a chain reaction. She''s always telling him he''s shit-¡¯


    Casey looks mortified.


    ''-and he gets upset, so he came to me to try and talk it out, but he was shouting-''


    She looks livid.


    ''-and my brain shut down and I just... ran away. He must be so scared about what happened to me.''


    ¡®Did he¡­ were you¡­ was there drinking?¡¯


    ¡®No. Sober shouting. He needed to shout into the void so he could feel better, but I was caught up in it because I was nearby. I feel so weak.¡¯


    ¡®It''s not your fault.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I know.¡¯


    I wave my scraped hands at her.


    ''Do you think I need stitches?''


    She examines the cut.


    ''Probably not. Just don''t do anything too strenuous with that hand.''


    We sit in silence.


    I can''t keep putting it off.


    With great effort, I text;


    <blockquote>


    I''m safe. I''ll be back soon.


    </blockquote>


    And reach out to put my phone on the coffee table.


    It rings, startling me. I hurl it across the room.


    Casey tut-tuts at my foolishness and goes to fetch it.


    ¡®Who¡¯s in your phone as ''Executioner''?¡¯


    I suppress a laugh.


    ¡®My lawyer. I have no idea what her real name is. I''m such a piece of shit.¡¯


    Casey gives me a look of reproach. I''m not sure whether it''s because she hasn''t been in the loop about my lawyer, or because of what I called myself. I suppose it doesn''t really matter. I deserve all the dirty looks. I am garbage. I''ve been a bad friend. From the moment I took on this job, I''ve been terrible to everyone. I used her to spread rumours. I judged her. I abandoned her. I turned up for a brief moment when the house was broken into, but then I ran off again without a word.


    I''m wallowing in self-pity.


    She doesn''t deserve to witness this.


    I sit up straight, take a deep breath, and compose myself.


    ''She''s been building a case against the kidnapper. She thinks I can threaten to press criminal charges and he''ll settle out of court. I don''t know why she''d be calling now though.''


    ''Call her back when you''re feeling up to it. If Mr. Kidnapper is rich enough to pay hush money and you have the money to play at law... it''s probably worthwhile.''


    There was a time when she''d have idealistically told me to just press the charges. We''ve both grown past that. Neither of us believes in the justice of courts and bureaucracies anymore. Justice is for people who can pay for it, not for people like us. We''ve got to fight for whatever scraps we can drag out of a system designed for people bigger and more important than us.


    ''I will. I can''t let him off without any punishment at all.''


    She puts the phone back into my hands. The cracked screen is worse now.


    I don''t want to read the rest of the messages. Especially not with Casey in the room. Jaq''s a moron that sends things he shouldn''t.


    I have no idea what kind of deranged bullshit Charles might send.


    As though sensing my apprehension, Casey says;


    ''I''m going to get changed. I have to go out soon.''


    I nod. She steps out of the room.


    I try to mentally brace myself to read the rest of the messages.


    It''s not enough.


    Charles seems to know the gist of what happened between Jaq and I. I guess he''s having us watched. Whether it''s both of us, or just me, I don''t know. The thought fills me with terror. I look up at the window. I don''t see anything strange out there now - but I slept in a house without a functional front door.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    I shiver.


    His messages say that if I want to stay with him, he¡¯ll keep me safe.


    Safe.


    Ha.


    I''m not safe here.


    Nobody I care about is safe.


    ''You okay? You look like you''ve seen a ghost.''


    Chloe walks through the lounge, on her way to the bathroom. She looks well. I feel like I haven''t seen her in months. It''s probably only been days.


    ''Have you seen anyone weird hanging around since the break-in?''


    I should have said hello first.


    I''m the one being weird.


    ''I don''t think so.''


    ''How about today?''


    ''No?''


    I hesitate.


    I''m going to sound totally crazy if I say any of the things I''m thinking.


    ''Keep an eye out...''


    ''Why? It was probably just some kids. They even got spooked and dumped their loot. They know we aren''t worth hassling again.''


    If I don''t explain the danger, I''m leaving her to fend for herself.


    Would he really target them? Surely he''ll lay low now, right?


    I''m a terrible person.


    He''s not ''laying low.'' He''s sending me upsetting messages and not-so-subtly letting me know I''m being watched. I''m making paper-thin excuses to avoid the trouble of doing the right thing.


    ''Just keep your eyes peeled.''


    ''Okay, weirdo.''


    With a derisive laugh, she shuts herself in the bathroom.


    I stand slowly. I need her to know. I just can''t tell her enough to make her believe me. None of them will believe me. Not Chloe, Laurie, Jacob, or Sal.


    No one but Casey.


    I can''t leave my friends open to whatever Charles might be planning.


    I walk down the hallway to Casey''s room. With my head right by the doorjamb, I speak;


    ''Casey, how long until you have to go?''


    The door swings open immediately, and I stumble back a step in surprise.


    ''I''ve got to leave in about fifteen minutes if I want to catch the bus, why?''


    ¡®If you could catch a taxi... how long then?''


    ''Maybe an hour and a half? two hours?''


    ''I have to talk to you about some stuff I don''t think I can say here.¡¯


    She sighs.


    ¡®Okay. Let me get my purse. We can go get some late lunch.¡¯


    She tugs on my oversized hoodie.


    ¡®I¡¯ll lend you some human clothes too.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    <hr>


    Casey and I walk slowly through the middle of the small park near the house. The big, old oaks, scarred by decades of children climbing, teens carving, and hooligans doing hooligan things¡­ they remind me of my grandparents. Standing in silent vigil, weighed down by the things they¡¯ve witnessed and endured.


    ¡®You¡¯re serious?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    ¡®Charles Pitch thought it would be romantic to blackmail and kidnap you?¡¯


    I sigh, far too tired.


    ¡®That''s what he said. I''m certain it''s not true. I think he''s trying to isolate Jaq - or maybe punish him.¡¯


    She shakes her head.


    ¡®It¡¯s like they¡¯re all from another planet.¡¯


    She hugs me.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry you¡¯re dealing with this shit.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s my own stupid fault.¡¯


    ¡®How?¡¯


    ¡®The intelligent version of me that hides in the back of my brain with her hands far away from the controls was shouting the whole time that I had to turn Jaq down¡­ I knew it was a bad idea. I didn¡¯t listen. I should have.¡¯


    ¡®Shut up Jo ¨C you didn¡¯t make them into monsters, and you didn¡¯t choose to be charmed by Jaques. It¡¯s not your fault you have feelings¡­ that just happens.¡¯


    Except, I don¡¯t have feelings for Jaq. I¡¯m a fraud. Lying for money.


    Money is a bullshit excuse.


    My phone starts to ring.


    I reach into my borrowed purse for it - It¡¯s Jaq.


    ¡®Want me to tell him to stick his head in a public urinal?¡¯


    ¡®Gross. No.¡¯


    I apprehensively answer it.


    ¡®Hello?¡¯


    ¡®Jo! You answered! I¡¯ve been so worried, I¡¯m so sorry, I-¡®


    ¡®No. Shush.¡¯


    He falls silent.


    ¡®I¡¯m upset with you.¡¯


    ¡®¡­yeah.¡¯


    I don¡¯t even know what to say.


    ¡®¡­you scared me.¡¯


    ¡®¡­yeah.¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t do it again, or I¡¯m leaving.¡¯


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    I look at Casey, hoping she might somehow inspire me to say something clever. She makes a neck-cutting motion and points at the phone.


    ¡®I have to go now.¡¯


    ¡®No, Jo, I-''


    ''I''ll be back soon.''


    I hang up.


    Casey hugs me.


    ¡®Ice cold. That took guts, girl.¡¯


    I put the phone away.


    ¡®I¡¯m not cut out for this.¡¯


    ¡®Relationships are hard.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯


    It¡¯s not like that, though.


    I¡¯ve probably already said way too much.


    Even friendship is hard.


    ¡®Don¡¯t tell anyone about Charles¡¯ bullshit, okay? I don¡¯t want to risk anyone getting attacked or harassed by him because I¡¯m a blabbermouth. I¡¯ve got my Executioner on it.¡¯


    Casey laughs.


    ¡®Sure. I can totally manage two completely opposing tasks. That''s simple. I''ll keep everything a secret, and I''ll make sure everyone is safe from a bogyman they''re not allowed to know about and thus won''t believe in. You should come to me with easy jobs like this more often.''


    ''I''ve been tearing myself to shreds trying to do both.''


    ''Jo, you know you didn''t have to torture yourself like that. I''m right here. I''m great at helping. I''m only whinging about it for a joke.''


    ''Thanks.''


    ''Still gonna tell people Pitch is a creep though.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s fine. It¡¯s probably too generic a statement to trace to a source¡­ and I doubt I¡¯m the only one with horror stories about him. You don¡¯t just jump from totally reasonable guy to kidnapping in one day.¡¯


    ¡®Jeez, I certainly hope not.¡¯


    <hr>


    The sun is low on the horizon when I reach the take-out place from the menu. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s the right shop. It looks so different when I can see straight, and it smells amazing.


    I take a deep breath and walk in. It¡¯s not busy yet. Maybe I should have waited until the dinner rush so I could just hand over the bag and flee as quickly as possible. It¡¯s a stupid pink gift bag covered in hearts, and apart from the freshly laundered gym clothes, it¡¯s full of fancy chocolates and a bottle of wine. I assume it¡¯s a nice one. I don¡¯t know much about wine. The clerk at the store asked a lot of confusing questions about flavours the recipient would like - I must have looked like a fish. ''Um, um, um, I don''t know.'' was about all I could say.


    This is embarrassing.


    The man¡­ Daniel, I think? comes out of the back room when he hears the door chime. He smiles and greets me like any other customer. I don¡¯t think he recognises me. That makes this a little easier.


    I put the paper bag on the counter.


    ¡®This is for you and your Mum. Thank you.¡¯


    I assume she''s his mum. I hope she''s not just a much older sister.


    I turn quickly, trying to escape before he says anything.


    ¡®Are you feeling better today?¡¯


    I stop. I couldn¡¯t outrun the words. Now that I¡¯ve heard them, I can¡¯t flee without being rude as hell.


    ¡®Yes, thank you.¡¯


    ¡®Let me go get Boss, she was really worried about you.¡¯


    I wait patiently, eyes to the floor. The older woman comes out quickly, all smiles and cheer.


    ¡®You¡¯re back!¡¯


    She rounds the counter and examines my face closely. Satisfied, she takes my arm and gives it a squeeze.


    ¡®We were worried about you, you know. You gave us both a scare. You should have seen Daniel¡¯s face when he came and said a dead person was in the bathroom.¡¯


    I laugh nervously.


    ¡®I¡¯m really sorry. To both of you.¡¯


    ¡®It''s fine! You¡¯re okay now!¡¯


    I nod. The woman beams.


    ¡®Did you catch the guy who hit you?''


    ''It''s not hard to catch the pavement. It doesn''t run very fast.''


    ''Just pavement? You were not run over by a car?'' she whispers ''I know a very good boy who can help you cut their tires if you want...''


    I can''t help but giggle.


    ''It''s okay, my husband is very clumsy too. We had to move out of a house with stairs because he kept falling down. Not good for a man his age. You are young. Very strong.''


    This feeling in my heart¡­ She''s trying so hard to make me feel better. I wish this woman was my mother.


    Still holding my arm, she turns to Daniel;


    ¡®Did you get her number yet?¡¯


    ¡®What? No, Boss. She doesn¡¯t want my number.¡¯


    ¡®She¡¯s a good girl. She brought my clothes back right away!¡¯


    Ah. Maybe not. I don¡¯t want to be under that pressure. Living it vicariously through other people is stressful enough.


    ¡®Don¡¯t be rude to her, ask for her number.¡¯


    My nervous giggle escalates to a titter.


    ¡®It¡¯s okay, it¡¯s okay. I understand. I came into your shop looking like I was hit by a bus. It¡¯d be weird and awkward.¡¯


    ¡®Nonsense! ...At least let me give you some food to take home.¡¯


    Nooooo¡­ let me leave without being rude. You helped me so much already¡­


    She disappears into the kitchen, and Daniel follows after her with the gift bag, still arguing about asking for my number. I can end the awkward argument. I can fix it. I can point out my engagement ring¡­


    But, it¡¯s not on my finger. I sigh. It¡¯s probably back at home not home, in Casey''s room. I took it off because it caught in the shirt she lent me. I have to go back and get it.


    I think I feel relieved that I can¡¯t just point at the ring and say ¡®taken¡¯ ¨C and I don¡¯t know why. Maybe it¡¯s because I¡¯m regretting my decision to help Jaq.


    Lying to people I don¡¯t know, who don¡¯t care about me isn¡¯t hard. Lying to this sweet woman and her son¡­


    I¡¯m a monster.


    I can¡¯t change that. But, I can still end the argument.


    There¡¯s a notepad and a pen on the counter. I take them and write down a number. He¡¯ll never call, so it doesn¡¯t even matter what I write. When they come out I can give him this, and she¡¯ll leave him alone.


    Am I¡­ Am I just repeating the same mistake? I¡¯m already in a fake relationship. Now I¡¯m offering this guy a number so he can pacify his mother with a fake prospect. Why would he ever call me?


    I really am a monster.


    I crumple the page.


    I¡¯m a hollow shell. All it took was agreeing to help commit one stupid, selfish, thoughtless, cruel act to open a wound in my soul for my humanity to ooze out. When did my sense of decency finally evaporate?


    On second thought; I don¡¯t want to know.


    The woman returns with a take-out container and thrusts it into my hands. I accept it and thank her profusely.


    I almost run to the door, only stopping to drop the page in the bin.


    I don¡¯t deserve their kindness. I don¡¯t deserve this food. She made this with her own two hands. For me.


    I don¡¯t even know her name!


    I slump down at the bus stop. My mind is agony.


    I can¡¯t continue like this.


    One month, maybe two he said.


    If it¡¯s one, I¡¯m halfway there.


    No, even half a month is too much to bear. I can¡¯t do this.


    Raindrops splatter on my hands. I look up, but the sky is clear.


    Why can¡¯t I stop crying?


    I search in my handbag for a pill bottle that isn''t there. I need to make a doctor¡¯s appointment. I¡¯m taking them so frequently now. I should probably be on something else.


    <hr>


    When I finally return, Jaq is in my hotel room, practising. I''m amazed at how well the walls contain the sound. I can''t hear it in the hallway until I''m right by the door, and it''s only when I open the door that I''m hit by the full force of the music.


    Jaq looks up at me, surprised. He puts the violin down and stands like he wants to run over and hug me. He doesn''t.


    ''Jo, you''re back!''


    He looks tired.


    ''I am.''


    I put the leftover food in the mini-fridge and stand with the counter positioned between Jaq and myself. I''m not sure why, but it feels better to have a defensive wall.


    ''I''m sorry I ran away.''


    He looks shocked, then utterly baffled.


    ''Why are you sorry? I shouted at you for no reason.''


    ''You did - and that wasn''t nice. But I contributed to the problem when I ran and hid, and I didn''t say anything for a whole day.''


    My monotone is almost clinical. I''m struggling to say these things. I don''t want to apologise. I hate apologising.


    I guess everyone hates apologising. Nobody ever wants to admit they were wrong.


    ''I suppose I should tell you why I reacted the way I did.''


    He looks disbelieving; as though he was certain he already understood. He''s probably quite sure that he''s solely at fault. I could easily let him continue to think that. It would make him feel like he owes me. It might make him more pliant when I make requests of him.


    It wouldn''t be fair.


    I still don''t want to tell him.


    ''I had a panic attack. It hasn''t happened in years. I get anxious all the time, but I''ve learned to keep myself away from a full-blown panic like that. I failed yesterday.''


    He takes half a step toward me, then awkwardly retracts his foot. He wants to comfort me but hasn''t the faintest clue how. I guess he''s never had to comfort someone before.


    ''I''m sorry...''


    I can already see the pity forming in his expression. I hate it.


    ''The reason I''ve been so worried about Pitch stealing my documents, and the thing that traumatised me enough to give me panic attacks are one and the same. It''s a long story that I don''t like to tell.''


    ''You don''t have to. He can''t hurt you now. Lionel has a video...''


    I exhale heavily in frustration.


    ''He''s still got us under surveillance.''


    ''What?''


    ''He knew about the argument yesterday. He''s watching us. Lionel''s video isn''t going to keep him under control.''


    ''I- I didn''t think he''d...''


    I watch him as he stammers his way into silence. I don''t like the look on his face.


    ''Do you know why he''s so obsessed?''


    ''No, I-''


    ''Please don''t lie to me.''


    Jaq stubbornly stares at the floor in silence.


    I think I''ve worked it out.


    I want to be wrong.


    I need to be wrong.


    Please, for the sake of all that is sacred, let me be wrong.


    ''Jaq... Did you forget to tell your boyfriend that you were going to be in a fake relationship?''


    ''He''s not my boyfriend!''


    ''Friend with benefits, then - did you forget to tell him?''


    ''He''s not my-''


    With a wordless exclamation of frustration, he picks up his violin and charges out of the hotel room.


    ''Fuck.'' I say, to no one in particular.

 15. Euterpe

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Friday</h2>


    A knock on my door rouses me ¨C someone from the hotel with my laundry. No piles of gifts from Charles.


    Not yet, at least.


    I allow myself a tiny snippet of hope. If Jaq went to speak with him, then Charles may not be a problem anymore.


    That would require Jaq to grow both a brain and a spine.


    I''m not sure he''d be able to do that in one night.


    Among the garment bags is one containing a very fancy dress I don¡¯t recognise. There¡¯s a handwritten note attached to the hanger. It¡¯s addressed to me.


    Joanne; Wear this to the performance tonight.


    I take the dress out of the bag and hold it up to myself in the mirror. It¡¯s beautiful. Something a celebrity would wear to the Oscars. I feel like Cinderella.


    I wonder who picked it out? Probably Frances. It fits the style of some of the dresses she selected for the engagement photos.


    Another peace offering.


    Maybe things will be easier now?


    Knowing my luck, this dress is laced with the same caustic centaur poison that killed Herakles.


    I hang the clothes in the wardrobe and return to the kitchenette. I sit at the breakfast bar, hugging my knees.


    I forgot that the performance was tonight.


    I¡¯ll need to find someone to style my hair.


    At least Friday opening nights tend to be quieter than the Saturday night following, assuming it¡¯s the same for solo violinists as the theatre productions I¡¯ve been a part of.


    I wonder how well the tickets sold?


    It doesn¡¯t feel right to ask.


    I do need to ask about some logistics though.


    <blockquote>


    Am I being picked up for tonight, or should I ask the hotel to arrange a car?


    Do I need to collect a ticket, or do I just give my name at the door?


    </blockquote>


    I think about making coffee.


    I¡¯m about to get up when my phone rings ¨C it¡¯s Jaq. Couldn¡¯t he have just texted his reply?


    ¡®Hello?¡¯


    ¡®I forgot to arrange a ticket for you¡¯


    ¡®Oh. That¡¯s okay, I can-¡®


    ¡®No, it¡¯s not okay, it¡¯s sold out.¡¯


    Sold out on a Friday? Huh.


    ¡®I can sit backstage, somewhere out of the way ¨C nobody¡¯s taking photos of the audience, so nobody will know I didn¡¯t have a proper seat.¡¯


    There¡¯s a long pause.


    ¡®I¡¯ll pick you up and take you there. I¡¯m going a bit early. Maybe there¡¯s something the venue can do.¡¯


    ¡®Seriously, it¡¯s okay.¡¯


    And I don¡¯t really want to be alone in the car with you right now.


    ¡®No it isn¡¯t. I should have remembered.¡¯


    ¡®You had a lot on your mind. It¡¯s fine.¡¯


    I mean, it kind of isn¡¯t. You don¡¯t forget to get your fianc¨¦e a ticket to your show.


    He¡¯s so careless.


    He even mentioned payment in a text ¨C I still need to talk to him about that. But, this isn¡¯t a great time for it. He needs to be calm and collected for the performance. It''s better to pretend that everything is fine for now.


    ¡®Just worry about getting yourself to the venue. I''ll sort out my own transport, and negotiate seating once I get there. I can do that much, no need for you to think about it. You should focus on the show. Okay?¡¯


    ¡®Okay. Thanks.¡¯


    I take the dress out of the wardrobe again, just to admire it. The fabric shimmers under the electric lights in my room. It''s probably even more beautiful in the sunlight. Pity I''ll be wearing it at night.


    That''s assuming I''ll only wear it once.


    I almost don''t want to consider the possibility, but... this might be a gift. I may not have to return it. Maybe I can wear it in the sun.


    I''m not sure what kind of event I''d wear it to, but...


    I put it down.


    Priorities.


    I need to find a hairstylist. I need to do my makeup. I need a car. I need a seat at the venue.


    I feel like I should be writing this down as a shopping list.


    <hr>


    The murmur of the crowd dies quickly as I watch Jaq walk out onto the stage. The lights are so bright, the stage is so bare¡­ and he looks so small and alone in his stupid cummerbund. It''s almost as bad as his hair. I should have asked him what he was planning on wearing. I could have suggested something else.


    He lifts the violin to his shoulder, raises the bow to the strings¡­ and freezes.


    He stands unnaturally still, locked in position as though transfixed by a basilisk¡¯s baleful glare.


    Moments stretch out into seconds, and the audience begins to murmur again.


    ¡®Is this planned?¡¯ hisses the stagehand standing beside me. I shake my head.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Is it stage fright? I know he¡¯s done this sort of thing hundreds of times before¡­ but I¡¯ve never seen him perform.


    He never said anything about stage fright.


    He didn¡¯t seem any more anxious than usual.


    He''s not exactly a calm person... and he''s not the type to tell me about potential problems in advance so they can be mitigated.


    Pushing aside my deeply ingrained stagehand instinct to remain invisible, I lean out, precariously peering around the heavy velvet drapes. There has to be something that startled him¡­


    There¡¯s the Gorgon.


    Frances and Isaac are seated in the front row. Isaac seems as cheery as he usually is.


    Frances¡¯ face is a mask of rage.


    I lean back, getting as close to the stagehand''s ear as I can.


    ¡®Can you give a message to the lighting techs?¡¯


    ¡®Sure¡¯


    ¡®Kill the lights.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®Kill all the lights. He¡¯s seen his parents. They''re right in the front row. His mother''s been terrorising him all week about his technique...¡¯


    I trail off while the stagehand whispers into a headset.


    With the crack of the spotlights powering down, darkness envelops the stage. I hear gasps and yelps from the audience.


    I don¡¯t hear Jaq.


    Seconds skitter by. The murmuring grows louder.


    ¡®Now what?¡¯ hisses the stage hand.


    This is the stupidest idea¡­


    I stride out onto the dark stage, praying I haven¡¯t miscalculated the direction. My shoes click on the hard surface, deafeningly loud, cutting through the audience¡¯s chatter. With both hands outstretched in front of me, I finally make contact with Jaq¡¯s warm body. He¡¯s trembling.


    ¡®Jaq.¡¯


    I move around to his front, and cup his cheeks in my hands.


    ¡®Jaq. It¡¯s me. I¡¯ve got you.¡¯


    A tiny nod.


    ¡®It¡¯s just me. Play for me. Nobody else is here.¡¯


    Another tiny nod.


    No sound from the violin.


    He¡¯s dying.


    I release his face and shuffle back behind him. After some bumbling, I have my hands on his waist.


    This is a terrible idea.


    I can''t think of a better solution in the dark.


    I remember the tempo of the opening piece, and begin to softly count it, swaying as though the music had already started, and only I could hear it. I pray that the movement will remind him of his own easy motion as he plays, and that the memory will unlock his joints.


    ''One, two, three, four.''


    I can see people turning on phones in the audience. The shuffling of hundreds of feet and bags and chairs is starting to sound like a roar.


    ''One, two, three, four.''


    Finally, the first sonorous note, clear and full.


    It draws out, silencing the audience with its dark maple tone.


    I feel Jaq¡¯s posture soften. He sways with me, bending gently like a sapling.


    CRACK.


    I flinch, struck by the heat of a stage light. I open my eyes ¨C a single spotlight illuminates us. I can¡¯t see the crowd. They¡¯re completely lost in shadow.


    They can see me.


    I¡¯m breaking too many rules. I¡¯m not meant to be on the stage.


    The melody continues.


    I can¡¯t leave now ¨C my shoes are so loud¡­ and even if I try to walk quietly, it will be obvious this was all a big stupid mistake, not a calculated artistic choice¡­


    I¡¯m not meant to be here. Yet, here I am.


    I am part of this performance now.


    Can¡¯t someone turn that light off?


    I have to pretend I¡¯m supposed to be here.


    I try to sculpt my face into a serene, loving expression. Gently, I release Jaq''s waist. I echo the motions of his body as he plays ¨C a human shadow in a glittering gown. We dance and sway like grass in the wind. I become the muse Euterpe, guiding my chosen human pawn into divine mania.


    The dance is familiar, the moves are simple ¨C I¡¯ve heard these songs repeated over and over, and seen him sway in the same pattern ¨C I can pre-empt his movements, creating the illusion that I¡¯m his puppeteer.


    He''s lost in the music, unaware of my awkward attempt to ape him. I worry that he''ll notice.


    If he sees me, how could he interpret this as anything but a cruel satire?


    Still, I dance.


    I try to distance myself from him, to descend into the obscuring shadows, but a second spotlight starts to follow me.


    I am cursed.


    I continue to dance.


    Closer, further, closer, further, always behind Jaq so he won''t catch sight of me.


    I try to follow the flow of the music.


    Finally, after an age that passes in a moment, the music stops. The spotlights finally lift, and we return to the thick, blessed blackness. The audience erupts into applause. I clatter across the stage back to safety, drowning in the wash of noise from the crowd. I run past the bewildered stagehand, and sprint down into the fluorescently lit bowels of the concert hall, searching for bathrooms.


    I slam into the door with my shoulder. It crashes against the wall as I skid over the tiles into a stall, twisting my ankle in the horribly high heels.


    What did I just do? That was the stupidest thing, it was stupid, why would I do that? I should have just run. I should have run away. I looked like an idiot, flouncing around, just¡­ I want to die. I want to die, I want to die.


    I tense my entire body like a spring, trying to alleviate the agony in my head.


    My brain feels like it will burst. I can''t take it.


    Volcanic tears drip down my face, and I¡¯m so grateful to have found a bathroom to hide in.


    I kick and thrash, I weep and stretch my muscles to their limits. I bite my wrists, my hands... the pain won¡¯t stop. There''s nothing I can do to distract from the thunderous storm of emotions lacerating my mind.


    Shame, anger, embarrassment, guilt, rage, confusion, terror, humiliation, remorse, grief, regret - swirling like an ocean of broken glass.


    The door to the bathroom creaks open.


    ¡®Hello?¡¯


    I freeze. I don¡¯t want to be seen like this.


    I don''t want to be heard like this.


    I don''t want to be like this.


    ¡®Are you in there? Joanne?¡¯


    Footsteps cross the tiled floor.


    I hold my breath, praying she''ll go away.


    ¡®Joanne? Are you okay?¡¯


    If I open my mouth, I won¡¯t be able to hold it in anymore.


    ¡®Joanne? You did great. You really did.¡¯


    The voice is coming from the opposite side of the stall door.


    My fa?ade cracks.


    I sob. I can¡¯t stop it.


    ¡®Hey, Jo. That took a lot of courage. You must know Jaq so well to have been able to get him back on his feet like that.¡¯


    I cry harder.


    ¡®Hey, come out. Let me give you a hug.¡¯


    I fumble with the latch and launch myself into the arms of the stagehand. She holds me tight, stroking my hair.


    ''That wasn''t supposed to happen,'' I wail.


    ¡®You did good. You really did.¡¯


    She holds me until my weeping recedes into sniffling. Her shoulder is soaked. She fetches me some paper towels.


    ¡®I¡¯m going to go get you some water, and let Jaq know you¡¯re okay.¡¯


    I nod, leaning against a sink. I splash my face with icy cold water and try to breathe.


    By the time the stagehand returns with Jaq, I¡¯ve dried my face and tidied my makeup as best I can. My eyes are puffy. I can¡¯t hide that. Jaq is pushed into the bathroom, and the door closes behind him.


    ¡®¡­Jo¡­¡¯


    I can¡¯t bring myself to look at him. He waits a moment, then says;


    ¡®Thank you.¡¯


    Tears well up, unbidden.


    ¡®That¡¯s okay,¡¯ I sob.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    ¡®No, no, I¡¯m sorry. I ruined your performance.¡¯


    ¡®¡­no, you didn¡¯t. The audience thought it was planned. They wanted you to come back onto the stage for a final bow.¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®I just want to go home.¡¯


    ¡®Okay.¡¯


    He steps out of the bathroom and I¡¯m alone again. I can feel myself shutting down, sinking into divine numbness. The stagehand returns and guides me to an unfamiliar exit, where a car is waiting for me. I obediently climb in, and I¡¯m driven away.

 16. Poets

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Saturday</h2>


    Alertness comes at me in a rush. I lay in the comfortable guest bed, weighed down by the cold knowledge that I royally screwed up. I begin making plans for how I can escape Jaq¡¯s house without being seen. I want to disappear like I never existed. I never want to be seen again.


    I see my vile high heel shoes on the floor by the bed.


    I can run barefoot to the front door, and then tear down the driveway. So long as nobody tries to stop me, I¡¯m fairly sure I can scale the fence. I may have to rip my pretty dress for freedom of movement. It won¡¯t be elegant. I won''t get to wear it again. That¡¯s fine.


    I¡¯m not sure what happens after that. I¡¯ll have to find a bus. Do buses even run around here?


    I''m being a melodramatic idiot again.


    I slowly sit up, and the headache hits me. I¡¯m so thirsty. I will have to make a detour through the kitchen.


    I fumble around clumsily with my feet, trying to pick up the shoes. I put a little bit too much pressure on one foot and am rudely reminded of the twisted ankle I gave myself last night. I grimace. Once the shoes are in hand, I creep gingerly to the door, mentally preparing to run at the first sign of another human.


    I open the door quietly and look around. I hear Jaq, but I don¡¯t see anyone yet. I step into the hall with a crunch.


    There¡¯s a newspaper under my foot. It¡¯s open to the Culture section. There¡¯s a photo of Jaq and I on stage last night.


    ¡®¡­a beautiful performance by famed violinist Jaques Glarean, unexpectedly accompanied by contemporary dance artist¡­¡¯


    I swallow hard and lift my foot, cursing it for betraying me.


    Once past the paper trap, I creep down the hall towards the kitchen. I don¡¯t hear anyone in there right now. I carefully turn the handle, peek inside ¨C empty. Perfect. I scramble in and go to close the door. It sticks.


    ¡®Hey-¡®


    Shit.


    I release the handle and let the person on the other side open it.


    ¡®Hi, Lionel.¡¯


    That was maybe a little too glum in tone. Despite my best efforts, my shoulders sag, dragged down by my own self-loathing.


    ¡®Good morning to you too,¡¯ he says, chipper as ever. ¡®You had a rough night, huh?¡¯


    I nod, slowly making my way to the cupboard for a glass.


    ¡®You never told me you could dance.¡¯


    I don¡¯t want to hear this, but he persists;


    ¡®Maybe when this is all over, I should take you out dancing.¡¯


    ¡®Stop teasing me.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m serious. That was pretty cool. Nobody suspected anything. Well, I did. I know Jaq wouldn¡¯t have agreed to that if you''d suggested it, and if he had agreed to it, he wouldn''t have been able to keep that a secret.¡¯


    If only I could just will myself into deafness.


    ¡®Even Mother was impressed.¡¯


    Oh no. Frances.


    She saw the whole thing.


    ¡®She went on at length about classical influences and musical narrative something, instead of just criticizing Jackie¡¯s sloppy finger placement and general laziness.¡¯


    My brow furrows.


    ¡®I think she likes you.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    Lionel is smiling at me ¨C not a cruel smile. A triumphant one.


    ¡®You heard me. You¡¯ve won her over. I mean, as much as anyone can.¡¯


    ¡®I¡­ just got caught in the spotlight, and improvised.¡¯


    I put my glass down. My hands are shaking too much. I don¡¯t want him to see. He approaches slowly.


    I never really paid attention to how tall he was. I feel so small in his shadow.


    ¡®Hey.¡¯


    He pulls me close, arms wrapped tight around me.


    ¡®It¡¯s okay.¡¯


    I relent and sink into the hug. I never realised how much I relied on human contact. Casey was always there to hug me if I even showed the slightest bit of emotion, and often when I didn¡¯t.


    Living alone in the hotel this long¡­


    Living under stress this long.


    It¡¯s not healthy. Not for me.


    ¡®You did good, Jo. Really good. Sophie was jealous.¡¯


    ¡®Sophie?¡¯


    ¡®Yeah. I took her to the show as a favour.¡¯


    ¡®You saw it too?¡¯


    It only clicks in my mind now. Of course, he saw it. I feel the vibration of his repressed chuckle.


    ¡®I saw. I have to admit, I was probably more jealous than Sophie.¡¯


    This keeps getting worse. I bury my face in the crook of his elbow.


    ¡®Jaq has all the luck, but he¡¯s too dense to realise it.¡¯


    ¡®Shut up¡¯ ¨C my voice is muffled by his sleeve.


    ¡®Come on. I¡¯ll take you home.¡¯


    Finally, he says something I want to hear.


    <hr>


    When I emerge from the shower, I catch Lionel looking through one of my sketchbooks.


    ¡®No, no, no!¡¯


    I dash over and slam it shut.


    He looks up at me, guiltless and confused, then carefully extracts his fingers from between the pages.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    I drag the book away and dump it into one of the open boxes.


    ¡®I don¡¯t like people looking at my unfinished art.¡¯


    Again, confusion.


    ¡®What do you mean? It all looked pretty finished to me¡­¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s because you don¡¯t know what finished looks like.¡¯


    I sigh, frustrated.


    A little dejectedly, he says;


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry. I just¡­ wanted to see more of you.¡¯


    Huh?


    ¡®Ah. That sounded weird. I mean¡­ how do I explain this... I don¡¯t know how much of the person I know is an act and how much is the person you really are. I don¡¯t see you drawing, but you did, right? I¡¯m guessing you don¡¯t do it around the house so you look more like someone my brother should marry.¡¯


    I don¡¯t draw there because I feel too vulnerable to lose myself in my imagination¡­


    I think I understand what he wants. I can¡¯t really be the real me right now. I¡¯m doing my best to method act someone far fancier than myself. I''m not particularly good at it, but I think it''s worked relatively well so far.


    I find my phone ¨C my old phone. I plug it in by the table and place it in front of him. It¡¯s full of photos of me and my friends ¨C being silly, having fun, working in the theatre. Photos of people¡¯s dogs, stray cats, weird bugs. Flowers and mushrooms growing out of the city¡¯s unkempt alleys and gutters. Weird architecture. Beautiful skies. And, here and there, things I¡¯d made. Things I was willing to show people.


    I can¡¯t be myself right now. If I¡¯m honest with myself, I don¡¯t even know who I am right now. But, these photos show the world through my eyes. The things I saw and cared enough about to take a photo to remember them by.


    He swipes through the images while I search boxes, looking for my good pencil case. I find it eventually. Inside are several rubber bands that I saved from the last batch of brochures printed for the theatre. Unfortunately, they¡¯ve perished and break apart in my hands. I need to get new ones¡­ or perhaps I have a bracelet with a good elastic cord. I continue my search.


    ¡®You look happier in these pictures than you look when you¡¯re at the house.¡¯


    I glance over.


    ¡®Photos are for happy times. It¡¯s not always roses.¡¯


    ¡®No, I mean¡­¡¯ his lapse into silence is somehow more distressing than his chosen topic of discussion.


    ¡®do you hate us?¡¯


    He says it quietly, but I hear it nonetheless. I slip a bracelet over my wrist. It will have to do for now. I return to Lionel. He¡¯s looking at a photo of Casey and I in an op-shop, wearing fantastically awful 70¡¯s style shirts and sunglasses.


    ¡®I don¡¯t hate you.¡¯


    ¡®Jo-¡®


    ¡®I don¡¯t hate either of you. I¡¯m just¡­ I guess, struggling to adjust. I¡¯m used to being packed like sardines into a shabby, drafty house, with people who are always there, on my level. No secrets, no judgment. No hierarchy. Just being... just being friends.¡¯


    The screen blinks out. The black surface reflects my tired face back at me.


    ¡®It¡¯s weird being alone so often. I mean, it¡¯d get lonely when people were busy with a production. Most of them are actors, so the house would really empty out. But¡­ there would still almost always be someone there.¡¯


    I lean against the breakfast bar, thinking.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡®It doesn¡¯t help that I feel like I¡¯m at work when I¡¯m with Jaq. I¡¯m not taking in the scenery, or thinking about trivial things like all the cute dogs I see people walking. I¡¯m waiting for Frances to slither in through a window and behead me. So, I can¡¯t take lots of fun photos. I¡¯m not really having a ton of fun¡­ so all the photos I take now are for the sake of the impact they will have if they leak onto social media. They''re part of my work.¡¯


    He looks thoughtful.


    ¡®Do you feel like you¡¯re at work with me?¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®Not so much. I¡¯m not pretending to be your fianc¨¦e¡­ but I still can¡¯t be seen being too familiar with you. I¡¯m not sure what the proper boundaries are in a family like yours, so I¡¯m worried I¡¯m still generating juicy gossip for the staff by just chatting with you in a friendly way.¡¯


    I don¡¯t think that was the answer he wanted to hear. I didn''t want to upset him. I try to push through the discomfort;


    ¡®I didn¡¯t think it would be so painful to help him. He just seemed so¡­ miserable. Desperate. It¡¯s only been¡­ what¡­ two weeks? And I¡¯ve already been in tabloids and newspapers, I¡¯ve been robbed, blackmailed, kidnapped, accidentally crashed a live music performance, and had more panic attacks than I¡¯ve had in years. Normally the only things that stressed me out this much were things like where I was getting my rent money from and how I was going to eat. That was enough worry for one person. Basic existential stress. Add more on top¡­ it gets excessive.¡¯


    I watch his face. He¡¯s slouched over more than usual. There¡¯s a dispirited look to his features.


    I made it worse.


    I say;


    ¡®It¡¯s not your fault.¡¯


    He looks up, as though just realising he was still in the room with me.


    ¡®I know.¡¯


    He rubs his face.


    ¡®I just wish we could have met under different circumstances.¡¯


    He gestures towards my old phone, as though it can explain his cryptic statement. It does.


    I check the time.


    ¡®Hey. Get your coat. We¡¯ve got maybe two hours before closing.¡¯


    ¡®For what?¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯ll see.¡¯


    He obeys without further questions ¨C thankfully.


    I take him to a nearby bus stop. We don¡¯t have long to wait. Of course, he doesn¡¯t have a ticket. I swipe mine and herd him to a seat. He¡¯s probably never had to use buses and trains.


    So long as a ticket inspector doesn¡¯t catch us this time. We can get him a ticket for next time.


    ¡®I could have driven us.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know the way by car.¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t drive, so I¡¯m not looking at landmarks the way a driver does. I don¡¯t know street names. I just know stop 53 on the 75 bus route is where I want to go right now.¡¯


    ¡®What stop was that?¡¯


    ¡®Stop 3?¡¯


    ¡®How long is this going to take?¡¯


    ¡®Maybe¡­ thirty, forty minutes, depending on traffic.¡¯


    ¡®I could have driven us.¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®That¡¯s no fun.¡¯


    ¡®You said we had two hours.¡¯


    ¡®Yep ¨C we¡¯ll have an hour and twenty once we get there.¡¯


    ¡®Driving would have been faster.¡¯


    I roll my eyes.


    ¡®You know the song Common People by Pulp?¡¯


    ¡®¡­yeah¡­¡¯


    ¡®You wanted to know what I''m normally like, so I¡¯m taking you to do the things common people like me normally do. That includes taking the bus.¡¯


    I think we¡¯ve stepped up from confusion to befuddlement.


    ¡®You felt so bad a minute ago. About me being forced to hide my real self, staying away from my friends, not drawing or whatever. I¡¯m turning the tables.¡¯


    ¡®So you¡¯re taking me to see your friends? I''ve been to the theatre before.¡¯


    No, not that. This surprise idea was never going to work. It was stupid anyway.


    ¡®No, not yet. First, we¡¯re going to a shop so you can dress how common people dress. That way you fit in when I drag you and Jaq to the cast party on Monday to see my friends.¡¯


    And now he looks terrified.


    Oh well.


    <hr>


    This is one of my favourite op-shops. It¡¯s big. There are always new things, and it hasn¡¯t gone the way of the sleazy op-shops closer to the city, trying to pretend they¡¯re havens for trendy counter-culture, charging higher than new prices for their donated, second-hand goods.


    This place is honest. It knows its purpose. It serves the underclasses. There¡¯s no gross marketing spin.


    Better yet; the volunteers know me ¨C they put things aside for me. They¡¯re always saving me weird stuff that they can¡¯t sell but thought I might want to use for a set or a prop or something.


    ¡®Joanne!¡¯


    ¡®Rita!¡¯


    The elderly woman bustles over to me, giving me a friendly hug and a kiss on the cheek.


    ¡®You¡¯ve been away for so long! You used to visit me every day! I thought you had died.¡¯


    I laugh. I missed Rita so much. Everything is bigger, more important, more real with her.


    ¡®No, I¡¯m still completely alive.¡¯


    ¡®And who is this Adonis you have brought with you?¡¯


    ¡®Lionel, this is Rita. Ask her about her nieces.¡¯


    ¡®Oh, you¡¯re single! Joanne, why is he single? You should have him all wrapped up in chains, so he doesn¡¯t get away!¡¯


    She narrows her eyes and cocks her head to the side.


    ¡®Joanne, tell me the truth. Is he unemployed?¡¯


    I lean close and whisper to her.


    ¡®Worse, he¡¯s rich.¡¯


    Her eyes widen and she throws her hands in the air.


    ¡®Oh! I have three nieces, all very beautiful, let me give you their phone numbers!¡¯


    I shouldn¡¯t have done that. At least¡­ not without warning him. I feel a little guilty. I used to take Rita¡¯s talk about relationships in stride. Now¡­


    I don¡¯t know how I feel.


    She means well. She comes from a different time, where things worked differently. It¡¯s not like she¡¯s doing it to gain prestige or some cold strategic exchange of wealth. She cares. She cares about everyone.


    I think back on Daniel¡¯s mum. She was the same. She saw I was honest and polite enough to return her clothes, and she thought I might be a good option for him, despite my extremely obvious failings. She cares about him.


    Not like Frances. She wanted Jaq to marry to avoid shame. She selected women with looks and money for his partners. Not women who would understand him. Not women who could relate to him. She certainly wouldn''t have considered a man for his partner - I doubt the possibility would even register.


    I rummage through the racks, looking for clothes that might fit Lionel. Jaq¡¯s a fairly similar size, maybe a bit skinnier. I want to bring him to the cast party too ¨C it should be good for him. I also can''t pass up the opportunity to take photos of him with me and my friends as more evidence that he''s just that in love with me. Frances probably won''t approve of my friends, but she''ll likely construe Jaq''s actions as sincere affection. We need her to think he''d do anything for me.


    I couldn¡¯t bring him here to try things on though. Judging by the last time we went clothes shopping; he¡¯d have a fit. I''m also desperately trying to delay the inevitable argument over his crippling inability to communicate with the people who care about him.


    I still want to get him an outfit though.


    It would be nice if both Jaq and Lionel got along with my friends¡­ if they do, then maybe they will join my little tribe of oddballs and eccentrics after this is over. They could both do with more exposure to ''normal'' people. People who are supportive and kind.


    ¡®Here.¡¯


    I place a bundle of clothes into Lionel¡¯s hands. Suddenly armed with an excuse to flee, he races for the fitting room.


    Rita, deprived of her prey, returns to fussing over me.


    ¡®Have you lost weight? You should be eating more. Oh!¡¯


    Hand to her heart, she points at my fake engagement ring. I hold it out so she can see it.


    ¡®Who is he? Why is he letting you out in the company of such men as that? He is no good.¡¯


    ¡®He¡¯s a musician.¡¯


    ¡®Terrible! Terrible! Dump him right now. I have a good nephew, still available. He is working as an electrician. Very good income.¡¯


    I see today''s newspaper on the shelf behind the counter. I could show her Jaq. With me, even. I don¡¯t want to see it. I really don¡¯t want to see it. I do want to see Rita¡¯s face when she sees it though.


    I hate myself.


    ¡®Is that today¡¯s paper?¡¯


    She hands it to me. I open it to the Culture section and place it in front of her. Rita looks like she might faint.


    ¡®You are a dancer now? A dancer?! Is this him? He is a bad influence.¡¯


    Exactly what Frances said about me.


    Lionel steps out of the dressing room, looking awkward in unfashionable jeans and an ugly tee shirt. He has the jumper I picked out over his arm.


    ¡®Jo, this is really itchy-¡¯


    Immediately Rita turns on him.


    ¡®ADONIS. Tell Joanne to leave this man right now. You should marry her.¡¯


    He freezes, like a deer in headlights.


    ¡®I¡­ uh¡­¡¯


    I think he might actually be blushing.


    ¡®Rita, leave him alone. You¡¯re telling him to steal me from his brother.¡¯


    She scowls at me.


    ¡®Why did you choose the musician over this? This is the better brother. You have always had terrible taste in men. Poets! Bah!¡¯


    She throws her hands up in disgust and retires to the back room.


    Lionel is stunned.


    ¡®It¡¯s okay. She doesn¡¯t bite.¡¯


    ¡®She gave me three phone numbers.¡¯


    ¡®She does that to everyone. I think I have her nephews¡¯ phone numbers memorised at this point. So, you were saying the jumper is too itchy? It probably just needs to be washed with conditioner.¡¯


    I look him over.


    ¡®Shirt fits fine. The pants are probably too big. I think I gave you a corduroy pair that were a little smaller.¡¯


    ¡®Corduroy?¡¯


    ¡®The fuzzy brown ones.¡¯


    ¡®Those are hideous.¡¯


    I grin.


    ¡®Beggars can¡¯t be choosers.¡¯


    He looks despondent.


    ¡®I¡¯m not going to make you wear them. Try them so I can see if they fit better. It will help me find other things that fit. The marked sizes can¡¯t be trusted. They¡¯re from all different countries and span decades. You kind of have to eyeball it.¡¯


    He obediently returns to the dressing room.


    An hour and twenty really isn¡¯t enough to browse a shop like this, but I can''t control closing time. We find Lionel a suitable outfit that he doesn¡¯t completely hate, and we have an acceptable ensemble for Jaq.


    Provided that Lionel knows approximately what Jaq likes to wear.


    I hope he does. This could go very badly if he¡¯s wrong. I don¡¯t want Jaq to be on guard all night because he¡¯s feeling out of place due to being comically overdressed, but I also don¡¯t want him to feel embarrassed by the outfit I give him to blend in.


    We board the bus back to the city. With a cheeky expression, Lionel nudges me.


    ¡®Poets, huh?¡¯


    Okay, I deserve this.


    <hr>


    A new dress awaits me at my hotel room; this one is designed for dancing. Graceful ruffles and frills spill out of the garment bag, eager to illustrate just how perfectly they will accentuate their wearer''s movements.


    I can already feel my blood thickening like a stew and refusing to pump through my veins.


    That wasn''t an act I could do twice. I''m not a solo dancer. I''m fine in a group - on a chorus line. I don''t take the lead.


    The lead is always reserved for named characters anyway - that''s not me.


    Casey plays named characters. Casey dances in the front. Casey takes the spotlight.


    I''m happiest as a stagehand, dressed in black from head to toe, pushing scenery across the stage in the shadows. I''m fine as an extra, filling in a space on the stage. I''m okay as a chorus girl, one of a set, nothing special, nothing to remember.


    The spotlight is my antithesis.


    I forgot that, because it happened once, the audience will expect it to happen again.


    I can''t.


    I put the dress down on the table.


    It doesn''t have to be me.


    I try to come up with alternatives.


    All the people I can think of to take my place are in the Streetcar production.


    I lay down on the floor, suddenly unable to carry my own weight.


    People bought tickets not knowing that there would be a show alongside the music. They just wanted to hear Jaq. Would they really be so disappointed if they don''t get a dancer?


    I hate myself.


    I don''t even remember if the review in the paper was positive. I never got further than the photo and headline.


    I hate myself.


    Frances thought it was good.


    Frances expects me to be there.


    The rest of the audience doesn''t matter. If I don''t show up, will she think less of me? I just barely won her support.


    I hate myself.


    Will she even be there? Why go to both performances?


    Why go to even one? She seems to hate everything Jaq plays.


    If she''s not there... I don''t have to go, right?


    She might have friends attending who will act as inadvertent informants.


    I need to be there.


    Feeling hollow and numb, I roll over and crawl across the floor. I still have all the junk that Charles sent me. I have a few hours before I need to be there.


    A simple mask isn''t much effort. I''ve had plenty of practice with them. The Greek plays are all meant to be staged with masks, though modern directors don''t always do that. Hollis loves the masks - they let him do weird and wonderful things with casting. As a result, you could probably wallpaper the entire theatre with masks I''ve made for him.


    A mask won''t make me anonymous. I don''t really have anonymity to preserve. I was seen; photographed.


    It''s still something that might help me feel less exposed. I won''t have to concentrate as much on hiding my terror. It''ll give me more mental leeway.


    I search frantically through my life''s refuse to match colours to the dress. I have to do this without using any paint; paint takes too much time to dry. Wet paint ruins dresses.


    Once I have my materials, I bury my fear between sequins and hot glue. In a few minutes, I hold a me-shaped shell formed of shredded fabric from my old, discarded clothes.


    I''m lucky. It doesn''t take long. The result isn''t sturdy. It won''t last more than a few uses.


    I support the thing in my hands as the last of the glue cools, careful to keep it from warping. I send a message to the stylist from yesterday, asking if she''s got an opening for me.


    She''ll be here soon.


    Once the glue has cooled, I pour myself a glass of water and take out my pill bottle. I don''t know if the tiny pill in my hand will be enough. Two is probably a bad idea.


    I take one. I certainly won''t survive this without at least one.


    I''ve never taken two at once before. I don''t know what kind of effect it might have on me. I''d rather not go up on stage acting like a drunk. It seems like an unnecessary risk...


    ...but I want another one.


    I put the bottle away.


    I force myself to breathe deeply.

 17. Ownership

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Sunday</h2>


    I stand barefoot at the door to my room. The paper today doesn''t have anything on Jaq''s performance. I suppose it''s old news. Not worthy of appearing twice. I check the Culture section a second time, just to be certain.


    In this case, I think no news is very good news.


    I have to resist the urge to look reviews up online. It''s much healthier to restrict myself to print media for this - the comments sections on digital articles and video clips are dangerous. They''re where self-esteem goes to die.


    I try to reassure myself.


    The stagehands were very positive after the show.


    Not that they had a great view from backstage.


    They were probably more impressed that I returned after the unpleasant display of panic I put on at the first show.


    I feel my palms begin to sweat.


    Don''t think about it.


    My phone buzzes. I don''t want to hear it.


    Today, I just want to wallow in self-loathing and regret, alone in my hotel room.


    It buzzes again. Insisting that I check it.


    Hateful thing.


    I pick it up, admiring the latticework of cracks spread across the screen. Most are just on the screen protector. Only the worst one made it the whole way through.


    It buzzes a third time.


    ''I swear, if you don''t shut up, I''ll throw you across the room again.''


    That seems to silence it.


    I wish threatening the messenger would erase the messages I''ve been sent. I can ignore them as much as I like. Ignoring them won''t un-send them, though.


    Grumbling, I look.


    I''ve been summoned to the estate.


    No thank you. I need to rest. After the past two weeks, I could spend a year curled up in the big hotel bed and still feel tired at the end of it.


    If this were a real job, I''d complain to HR about the hostile work environment, excessively long hours, and total lack of breaks. I''d demand union representation if nothing changed.


    Then I''d get fired for rabblerousing.


    I never want to do this again.


    Ever.


    Never ever ever.


    I feel like a child about to throw a tantrum.


    Tantrums don''t help anyone.


    I glance over the wreckage I left in the room yesterday after making that stupid mask. Ragged scraps of old clothes sit in a pile on the floor by the table, the remnants of sacrifices already forgotten. My bones protest loudly as I pick my way awkwardly through the scattered hot glue sticks and frayed ribbon.


    I''ll tidy it up later.


    <hr>


    The bright sunlight makes the estate''s lawn hard to look at. It''s too vibrant, the colour too saturated. It''s a strain for the eye to take in so much green all at once.


    I step out of the car and onto the cobbled driveway. The stonework is pretty, but it''s not easy to walk on. I begin to climb the stairs to the front door, thankful for the shade of the porch, but Jaq launches himself out, clomping down the stairs beside me and waving for me to follow.


    He must have been waiting for me in the front room.


    I begin to worry.


    He''s not usually this eager to see me, nor has he ever suggested we walk in the garden together.


    That seems almost romantic.


    Is he upset with me? Does he think I was upstaging him? Was I upstaging him?


    I think I was.


    I feel a crushing weight materialise in my chest.


    I briefly wonder if he''d going to drive me somewhere, but he passes the entrance to the garage without so much as a glance.


    I follow at a distance, struggling to keep up.


    What I''d give to be able to just wear sneakers all the damn time.


    We finally make it into a small courtyard with floral arches, and Jaq stops.


    ''What''s going on?'' I ask, breathless.


    He stands, straight-backed, facing away from me. I can only imagine his expression. He says;


    ''I''ve been doing really badly... at this whole thing.''


    I guess it''s good that he knows? The first step to improvement is knowing where you went wrong.


    ''You''ve done so much for me. You''ve protected me when you didn''t have to. You came to help me without being asked. You were there even when it hurt you. I''ve been relying on you for so much.''


    He turns around. He looks nervous.


    ''You even managed to make Mother praise me. That''s so much more than I imagined you''d be able to do.''


    He walks toward me slowly. Hesitatingly.


    I don''t like it.


    He says;


    ''I''ve come to realise I can''t do much without you. I need you.''


    Jaq kneels in front of me.


    No, no, don¡¯t do that. That¡¯s a terrible idea.


    He holds his empty hand up, miming the act of offering me a ring. The ring I¡¯m already wearing.


    No, Jaq, stop. Don¡¯t do this. Please stop.


    ¡®Will you be my real fianc¨¦e?¡¯


    ¡®Uh-¡¯


    ¡®Marry me. Really.¡¯


    I stare at him.


    ¡®I¡­ I can¡¯t.¡¯


    He looks crestfallen. I don''t want him to cry;


    ¡®No, don¡¯t do that¡­ I-¡¯


    I groan loudly.


    ¡®You don¡¯t want to marry me.¡¯


    ¡®I do.¡¯


    ¡®No, you don¡¯t. You want to possess some amalgam of me as your employee and the character I play to fool your parents.¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t understand.


    ¡®This¡¯


    I indicate my dress, the garden we''re standing in.


    ¡®This isn¡¯t me. This isn¡¯t me at all. You don¡¯t know me. I¡­ even I¡¯m losing touch with me.¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t think you in different clothes is a different you.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s not what I mean.¡¯


    I shake my head.


    ¡®You want¡­ a manager. A mother. A protector. Not a partner. I''m not looking for a ward. I¡¯m sorry.¡¯


    ¡®You don¡¯t know what I want.¡¯


    His expression is adamant ¨C his eyes intense.


    ¡®Let me prove that I want you.¡¯


    The bigger problem is, I don¡¯t want him.


    I couldn¡¯t respect him as a partner. He¡¯s incompetent, careless, selfish, prudish¡­ the only positive qualities he has are his wealth and his musical skill. Those don''t outweigh the negatives. My poor opinion of him, my distaste for his immaturity... none of it is a good foundation for a relationship.


    I''d have to at least like him as a person... that''d be a start. But, he''s barely a person in my mind. More like a... violin-playing mannequin.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    That might even be too generous. He seems so flat. He''s more like a silhouette of a person. A paper doll with split pins for joints.


    How do I say that without hurting him?


    This is why workplaces frown on bosses and employees dating. If I hurt him, he could decide to throw me out onto the street. And then? I live in a hotel room I can¡¯t afford.


    I don''t even know how they got all my stuff up into my room. Getting it back out would be a nightmare.


    ¡®I don¡¯t-¡®


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry, I sprung the question on you too soon.¡¯


    There was never going to be a right time.


    ¡®No-¡®


    He stands, and for the first time, voluntarily hugs me.


    ¡®I can do better.¡¯


    I wonder what this exchange looks like from the house. A heartfelt thanks? ...Not if they saw him go down to his knees. Him begging for forgiveness? That presents a much worse question; what would the staff speculate he might need forgiveness for?


    I want to push him away, but I can''t. Not here.


    I don''t want to be having this conversation. I''d rather talk about almost anything else... even the topics I''ve been deliberately delaying seem enjoyable in comparison.


    At the risk of sounding jealous, I say;


    ''You still haven''t spoken to Pitch.''


    His arms tense a little. I imagine he thought that topic was resolved when he stormed out on me.


    He releases me.


    ''Yeah.''


    ''When will you?''


    He turns away, suddenly unwilling to look at me.


    ''If you won''t speak to him, then you need to tell me what''s going on so I can do something about it.''


    He says nothing.


    ''Jaq.''


    I try to prompt him, impatient now.


    ''I need to know why he''s targeting me - I know it''s not because he ''fell in love'' with me. That''s ridiculous. I''m not some kind of fairytale princess whose beauty is so great that people go head-over-heels for me at first sight.''


    He starts to walk away from me, back to the house.


    ''Fine. If you won''t tell me, I''m going to have to do something stupid to find out for myself.''


    He turns back, a look of panic in his eyes.


    Too late, buddy.


    I march slowly toward the main gate.


    He could catch up if he wanted to. The combination of impractical shoes and uneven ground have me hobbled.


    If he were wise, he would stop me and tell me everything.


    He doesn''t.


    I wonder how this will look.


    Let the staff say what they want.


    It''s about time he was the one in hot water.


    <hr>


    Lionel''s car pulls up beside me - finally. I only walked two blocks from the house, but in this neighbourhood a block is gigantic.


    ''Welcome to the Lionel Glarean taxi service, where may I take you today, ma''am?''


    I flop down into the passenger seat.


    ''I hate your stupid brother.''


    ''Me too. He''s kind of a dick sometimes, huh?''


    I said I was going to do something stupid. Now, I have to follow through.


    ''We need to go see Pitch.''


    Lionel scowls at me.


    ''Are you sure?''


    I''m really not sure, but I can''t tell him that. Instead, I ask;


    ''Was Jaq dating Pitch?''


    ''Excuse me?''


    Lionel''s flabbergasted expression tells me more than an answer would have. If he was dating Charles, he kept it from Lionel. He hid it well. It seems like something he''d do. He''s so reticent with his emotions.


    ''He denied it when I asked him, but he denied it by shouting ''He''s not my boyfriend,'' and storming out. That''s basically saying ''There was something there and I''m embarrassed you''re asking about it,'' right?''


    Lionel looks thoughtful.


    ''Well, shit.''


    ''He forgot to tell me he had a brother - he didn''t tell you he was going to hire me to be his fake fianc¨¦e. What are the odds he didn''t even think to tell his maybe-a-boyfriend he was being forced to get married?''


    Lionel is silent.


    ''What if Pitch thought he and Jaq were pretty much an item, and everything was going peachy, and then with no warning and no explanation, Jaq just had a fianc¨¦e? If that happened to me... I''d probably go on a rampage.''


    ''I''d be pretty pissed too.''


    ''Jaq was fine with having me lie to you. He''d probably be fine with me lying to his almost-lover too. He was probably pretty happy to lie to Pitch himself... He doesn''t like to talk about anything personal. Asking him important stuff about his life was like pulling teeth - and he was paying me to set up this stupid farce so he knew he needed to tell me those things. If Pitch tried to question him, do you think he''d have responded in a healthy way? I''d bet money he just said stuff that made it even more painful - Am I delusional?''


    Lionel looks out the windscreen.


    ''I don''t know.''


    ''It would explain why he was so fucking creepy to me the first time I met him.''


    Finally, Lionel starts the car. We pull out into the street.


    ''But why isn''t he trying to get back at Jaq? Aren''t you kind of just an innocent bystander in this story? My brother is the one that hurt him.''


    I nod. I''d have thought that too, but;


    ''Jaq told him that I didn''t want them hanging out anymore.''


    ''I mean, that was kind of justified... he was being aggressively creepy.''


    ''But it wasn''t what I said. I told Jaq I didn''t want to hang out with Pitch, but he should still spend time with his friend. Whether he meant to or not, he specifically made the end of the relationship between them my fault. Now Pitch thinks I forced Jaq to ghost him after Pitch tried to warn me that Jaq was just using me.''


    ''When did he try to warn you?''


    ''The first or second time I met him, I think. He told me Jaq didn''t care about me. I think he was trying to hurt Jaq then, by scaring me away, but once it looked like I''d staked my claim on Jaq, he went after me.''


    ''Jeez.''


    ''That''s why I need to talk to Pitch.''


    We lapse into silence for the rest of the journey. I can''t stop running the scenario through my mind on repeat. I could imagine Jaq being completely oblivious to how serious his relationship with Charles had become. Not quite seeing the romantic advances for what they were, perhaps even returning them unintentionally. I could totally believe that he''d break off such a relationship, not realising that his actions would have such a serious effect; he didn''t quite understand what was happening in the first place.


    Conversely, I can imagine Jaq being in a completely unambiguous relationship with Charles, but then being too much of a coward to end it properly when the situation changed.


    I could envision a version of him that deliberately lead Charles on because he liked the attention, but kept rebuffing direct advances because he knew his parents wouldn''t allow him to be in a relationship like that.


    If I were in Charles'' situation, I would have been so angry with Jaq.


    Depending on how sincere she seemed, I might have tried to warn Jaq''s new partner, just like Charles did.


    I''d probably have tried to be more tactful about it, though.


    If she told me to get lost... I''d have left her alone. I can''t imagine a version of me that would have had the new beau stalked and robbed. I don''t think I could muster up the level of indignant rage I''d need to drive me to kidnap the poor sap.


    Even if it were clear that this hypothetical girl actively sought Jaq out to seduce him because she wanted to hurt me, I don''t think I''d be upset enough to attack her. Seduction takes two. He could have said no. By leaving me for someone else, Jaq would simply be proving that he wasn''t worth my time.


    Perhaps this is a class difference.


    I grew up with limited resources. I''m used to things being taken away, or giving up on them when they become too expensive. I never had the luxury of putting my foot down and saying; ''No, this is mine,'' irrespective of what it might cost me to keep it.


    I never had the energy to play at getting revenge when people hurt me. Most of the time, even justice was too much effort to obtain. Instead, I''d pick up the pieces and move on to something more productive. I''d build new defence systems to keep me safe for next time.


    Perhaps it''s a failure of my imagination, but I just can''t picture myself as someone who would take it all so personally.


    I dial Charles'' number. He answers the phone promptly;


    ''Jojo, my precious little mouse, to what do I owe the pleasure?''


    ''Are you home?''


    ''Oh, interested in a little rendezvous are we-''


    ''I''m outside. Come to the entrance.''


    I hang up.


    Charles arrives at the front gate, dressed casually in overpriced designer loungewear. He looks irritated.


    ''You didn''t say there would be two of you.''


    Lionel steps back a single step, as though he wants to offer us some privacy, but is unwilling to leave me unprotected. Normally I''d find a move like that condescending, but I know Charles wouldn''t think twice about hurting me.


    Especially considering what I''m about to say.


    Standing here, in the presence of someone who''s ready to do violence on my behalf, is cold comfort.


    I nervously ball my hands into tight fists inside my coat pickets, and ask;


    ''Were you in a romantic relationship with Jaq?''


    Charles glances at the car behind me, as if he were looking for the dash-cam. I don''t blame him. That was his downfall last time.


    ''And why would I dignify that question with a response?''


    I scrutinise his tone and expression. I can''t be certain. I want to demand a clearer answer, but I''m in no position to. He already doesn''t trust me. I wouldn''t trust me.


    I have to follow my gut and act as though I know my suspicion is right.


    I take a deep breath.


    ''Jaq didn''t dump you for me.''


    He looks surprised.


    ''I''m not his fianc¨¦e.''


    Behind me, I hear Lionel shift;


    ''Jo, don''t...''


    I ignore him and announce;


    ''I''m a fake.''


    Charles'' expression is sceptical.


    ''And why should I believe you?''


    I try to reassure myself - this is a calculated risk.


    He hasn''t said or done anything that would tell me I''m definitely wrong. He hasn''t laughed at me derisively. He hasn''t screwed up his face in disgust at the idea or pointed out any of the reasons why Jaq is undateable. He hasn''t shouted any homophobic slurs.


    Right now, I can either double down or give up.


    I may already have said enough to make him consider talking through his problems with Jaq, but I''m almost certain Jaq will just try to stonewall him again. He needs to believe me enough that Jaq''s bullshit won''t dissuade him.


    Telling him I''m a fraud doesn''t give him real leverage unless he has it on camera.


    ''You want to destroy me, don''t you? I''ll tell you how.''


    ''Jo!''


    Lionel grabs my sleeve, a futile attempt to stop me from speaking.


    ''You stole my documents, but you didn''t get anything incriminating. That folder was full of the things I''d need to reference for rental applications or tax returns. The incriminating stuff wasn''t in there.''


    I take a breath. If I could, I''d stop time here and never say it, but I don''t have superpowers.


    ''I was expelled from university. In my final year. Academic misconduct. I was innocent, but it didn''t matter. The disciplinary board didn''t find in my favour. If you want me gone it wouldn''t be hard to get all the evidence you need; you can just call the uni. Say you''re a prospective employer or something. They''ll tell you. Probably not in detail, but they''ll give you at least the bare bones, and that''s enough. Pass the information on to Frances. She''ll force Jaq to leave me. She was the one who forced him to get a fake fianc¨¦e in the first place.''


    I pause. Charles'' face is unreadable.


    ''That won''t solve your problem though. He''ll get another fake fianc¨¦e. You''ll have to drive her off too. Heck, maybe he''ll grow up and agree to actually marry someone. And then what?''


    ''Why are you telling me this?''


    ''If I didn''t, would you leave me alone? You''d just dig and pry until you found out. I''m not interested in fighting you. I didn''t sign up for that.''


    I step back, continuing;


    ''It''s up to you to decide if you want to talk to Jaq. What he did to you was cruel, but I don''t think he meant to hurt you. He probably just wanted to protect himself by avoiding the whole discussion, and didn''t think any of it through.''


    What you did to me was criminal, and you meant to do worse.


    I shake the thought out of my head.


    ''I don''t know if the relationship can be salvaged, or if you''d even want to. If I''d known about your feelings, I''d have found a way to make Jaq talk to you sooner. I''m sorry if it''s too late... or maybe I''m sorry it didn''t happen sooner, so you wouldn''t have been as attached, and wouldn''t have gotten hurt so badly when he inevitably did something this heartless. I don''t know.''


    Charles considers me, unspeaking. I don''t have more to say. The silence stretches out awkwardly.


    Rather than stand around like a lost lemon, I return to the car.


    ''Let''s go.''


    Lionel sits in the driver''s seat, watching Charles stalk back up to his house.


    ''That was reckless, Jo. You know he''ll do it.''


    ''Yeah.''


    I feel strangely free. Whether it''s a lingering adrenaline high or an actual sense of freedom, I don''t know.


    ''Mother''s going to want to kill you.''


    ''She sure is.''


    I rest my head against the glass.


    ''Are you going to be okay?''


    I laugh.


    ''I think your mother is probably too classy to hire goons to hunt me down.''


    She''ll probably try to sue me though. I hope my accountant has been diligent with her scheme to make my money safe.


    I still can''t believe I have an accountant.

 18. Lunch With a Lion and a Sheep

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Monday</h2>


    Monday is slow to start. I lay in bed, trying to work out what to do. I feel like a bird that willingly flew into a cage, unaware I was giving up the open sky.


    Jaq sent me a text.


    <blockquote>


    Mother has invited us to lunch. Be ready for pickup at 11:30


    </blockquote>


    A lunch invitation? That seems positive... though maybe Charles hasn''t quite decided what he''s going to do yet. He''d have to wait until the admin building at my old uni opened before he got his proof anyway.


    I glance at the time.


    He''s had two hours to get them to confirm or deny my claim. He doesn''t seem like the sort of person who would sit on a lead like that if he intended to act on it.


    Despite that... I''m not sure if I can celebrate yet. He may have slept in late, like me. Or they might be taking their time faffing around with some kind of dinosaur fax machine, refusing to send him confirmation that, yes, I was expelled, via email.


    Bureaucrats do so love their outdated, garbage technology.


    I roll out of bed and lay on the floor, covers dangling down over me. If I get cold enough, then maybe it¡¯ll be easier to force myself to go have a shower and get ready.


    My stomach feels like it''s trying to eat itself, so at least the food will be welcome.


    I wonder how much time will have to pass before I feel safe.


    I did this to myself.


    I''d pray, but I''m not sure who to pray to on this one. It seems like blasphemy no matter how I frame it.


    I''m the idiot that gave my enemy the weapon to destroy me, and I did it in the service of someone else committing fraud. Against their parents.


    Any religion with reasonable morals would probably require me to do some kind of penance before I''d be eligible to request favours again, and then they''d need to be favours that were morally sound.


    I don''t deserve divine intervention anyway.


    I can feel the lid on my bottled-up emotions beginning to come loose.


    Don''t dwell on it.


    I haul myself up off the floor and sit in the knot of sheets and blankets. The mess I abandoned yesterday stubbornly awaits my attention. I shouldn''t have left it. I could have put off seeing Jaq in the morning if I''d dealt with it immediately. He might have changed his mind about asking me to marry him.


    Idiot. Why did he do that?


    I think he likes having someone around to keep trouble at bay. It doesn''t need to be me, though. Nor does it need to be a romantic partner. He could hire a different kind of lackey for a much lower wage and get equal or better defence.


    I notice the mask laying on the floor, slightly further afield. I don''t want to see it again.


    I could give it to Frances. A souvenir of the time she got duped by a loser like me.


    It''s crass and petty, and I hate myself for thinking it would be funny to give her something so poorly made.


    I''m a hateful person.


    I hear my phone buzz. Casey says;


    <blockquote>


    Don''t forget the cast party tonight!


    </blockquote>


    I did forget.


    I didn''t time this sequence of events well. How am I supposed to pretend to be normal for them, after all this? They''ll know I''m faking it.


    ''Okay, fine. I''m an idiot. I said it. Happy now?'' I ask the empty room.


    <hr>


    I am collected from the hotel by an unfamiliar driver - I expected Jaq. I''m not sure if I should be worried by this. My stomach, already complaining about the lack of breakfast, decides I should definitely be worried.


    I feel like I ate a flock of angry pigeons.


    At least I''m not hungry anymore?


    I regret bringing the mask with me. It''ll be weird if I bring it in and then don''t hand it to someone. It''s so nicely wrapped - it''s obviously a gift.


    If there''s a bin outside I might be able to discreetly drop it in.


    I unload at a restaurant with its outdoor seating in a large terraced garden. Lionel is waiting on the footpath outside for me. He greets me with a severe expression and a single word;


    ''Trouble.''


    We enter and make our way past elegantly potted olive trees and cycads to the table reserved for us. Frances looks vaguely pleased, Isaac; mildly dissatisfied, Jaq; stoic, and Charles...


    I wasn''t told he''d be here.


    Trouble is an understatement.


    I plaster a smile on my face and take a seat.


    ''Hello! When Jaq let me know about lunch he didn''t mention there''d be six of us. It''s good to see you all.''


    Pleasantries are exchanged.


    I quietly pass the parcel containing the mask to Frances, and she accepts it with a polite;


    ''Oh, you shouldn''t have!''


    Fortunately, she doesn''t open it here. It''s presumptuous of me to give her something like this. She''ll see how cheap it is. She''ll realise how cheap I am. How little I genuinely have to offer.


    I feel like a snail stranded on a busy garden path. I could be stepped on at any moment. I don''t know whose boots are most likely to do the deed. Frances is here - but she''s not my biggest fear. I doubt she has the biggest feet.


    I feel ill.


    I force myself to hope that Charles is here to make Jaq uncomfortable, not to hurt me.


    If that is his goal, it would have been kinder if he''d left the rest of us out of it. We don''t need to be here. Jaq is easy enough to torment when he''s alone. No audience is necessary.


    I suppose Charles has never shown the slightest hint of kindness.


    Even if I choose to believe the most generous interpretation of his actions that I can think of... his warning that Jaq isn''t husband material wasn''t kind.


    He probably doesn''t know what kindness is.


    ''Isn''t that right, Jojo?''


    I haven''t been listening to the conversation.


    ''I''m sorry, I must''ve dosed off. What did you say?''


    Charles chuckles.


    ''I said; You can''t replace writers and artists with AI - it''s offensive - and demeaning to the audience.''


    I stare at him for a moment, completely bewildered. That isn''t where I expected this conversation to go.


    ''I guess I agree. People in creative fields are already massively undervalued. If a computer can do the same with a two-word prompt, why pay for art at all?''


    He smiles. I feel like I''ve unwittingly stepped into a trap.


    ''It''s like the tech world, with all its billions of dollars, was so jealous of what the humanities had, they had to find a way to steal the whole thing. It''s plagiarism of an entire field of human enterprise.''


    Oh, fuck you.


    I guess he did call the university as soon as the phone lines opened.


    Isaac looks like he''d rather be chained to a mountain with eagles eating his entrails than listen to this conversation. Frances seems to be enjoying herself.


    Figures.


    I am resigned to being verbally vivisected.


    ''It''s funny though, AI always manages to leave fingerprints.''


    Yep. Keep going with this overwrought metaphor. I''m sure it''ll be spectacular when you completely annihilate me.


    ''In visual arts, it doesn''t quite get faces, and it often misunderstands the objects it draws in odd ways. AI-generated essays and articles are unfocused, jumping around without reason; leaving the reader confused. If you know what you''re looking for, it''s easy to spot.''


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Oh my god, get to the point.


    He shows Frances something on his phone. She nods thoughtfully.


    ''Like AI, plagiarists leave fingerprints.''


    He leans over - for a moment I see a vividly ''painted'' image of a woman with a horribly deformed face - then he swipes across the screen. It''s a photograph of an actual fingerprint. He swipes again, to a wider shot. The fingerprint is baked in, under the glaze of my final sculpture project for uni.


    That thing was in pieces, but it''s been carefully glued back together. How does he have it? I threw it out in the hotel''s garbage.


    No. I asked one of the staff if there was a bin somewhere I could dump a box of rubbish into, and he said he''d take it. I gave it to him.


    Little bastard must''ve taken a bribe.


    Why on earth is Charles showing me this?


    He smiles smugly to himself, swiping again.


    It''s an almost identical sculpture. He swipes again. Another fingerprint.


    I suppose they could be the same? I''m not a fingerprint expert.


    What am I supposed to do with this? Is he telling me he believes me? I didn''t ask him to believe me. I just wanted him to forgive me and point his hate at someone who deserved it instead.


    I can''t keep my composure. The confusion is too intense. The knot in my brows must be screaming ''I don''t understand!''


    Fortunately, only Lionel seems to have picked up on it. He has one eyebrow raised, quizzically. Jaq is staring at his lunch like he''s waiting for it to jump up and bite him. Isaac is grimly downing his fourth glass of wine since I sat down. Frances seems to be completely captivated by Charles. She''s not paying me any attention at all.


    Ah. That''s why Isaac isn''t happy to be here. Frances has a crush on the younger man.


    ''I wouldn''t worry so much if I were you, Jojo. Audiences can be very discerning. They know when they''re being cheated. I don''t think AI can replace the soul of an artist; not until everyone on Earth forgets what real art looks like.''


    Frances responds, but I don''t hear the words. I don''t want to be here. I''m so tired of this constant stress.


    Lunch passes in a haze.


    As we prepare to leave, I pull Jaq aside;


    ''Did Lionel give you your outfit for tonight?''


    He looks briefly confused.


    ''He gave me some weird old clothes, yeah.''


    ''Did you try them on? Do they fit you?''


    He looks uncomfortable.


    ''What are they for?''


    ''The cast party! For my friend''s show! You couldn''t come to the show because you had your own show to prepare for, but you can come to the cast party.''


    He looks dubious.


    ''You need to be seen going places with me, Jaq.''


    His expression doesn''t change.


    ''Just wear them so you don''t feel too out of place. I gave Lionel the address.''


    Before; I wanted him to turn up. Now, I need him to be there. I have to get him alone to talk to him.


    Charles approaches us, having completed his extravagantly affectionate farewell to Frances. Isaac must be fuming.


    Completely ignoring Jaq, he says;


    ''What did you think of my detective work?''


    I glance down at my hands.


    ''I''m really not sure.''


    ''I thought you''d be happy.''


    ''I don''t know anything about fingerprints, but I assume you''re implying that the plagiarist handled my work before it was complete... and that that''s somehow proof that they copied me?''


    ''Correct.''


    ''But it was over a year ago. The investigation is closed. Nobody is going to care.''


    ''I care.''


    I almost don''t want to ask.


    ''Why?''


    He smiles.


    ''Because you told me the truth.''


    He pats my shoulder. I flinch.


    I feel small and insignificant under his hand. Deep inside my psyche, the animal part of my brain remembers the terror of being dragged around the zoo by this monster.


    I''m not asking the all questions I want to ask. How does he have my fingerprints? Or my sculpture? Or the plagiarist''s sculpture? How did he have time to get them both, examine them, and find a stray print?


    I don''t understand this creature. He''s man-shaped, but there''s no way he''s just a man.


    ''I''d kiss you goodbye too, but I''m sure your knight in shining armour would take issue.''


    I shudder involuntarily.


    ''You and Lionel look good together, by the way. He''s a much better choice for you than Jack.''


    Charles strides off.


    Jaq disappeared while I was distracted.


    Coward.


    <hr>


    I''m dithering by the entrance to the hotel, double checking I have everything I''ll need. Wallet, phone, congratulatory chocolate treats, keys. Lionel arrives to collect me. He''s alone in the car.


    I hoped that Jaq would be with him. That way I''d be certain of his attendance.


    There are infinite reasons why he''d refuse to go; He doesn''t like parties, he might want to avoid me because I rejected him, I told Charles the truth when he refused to, he could just be sulking after the awful lunch we had with his parents...


    There is no point in dwelling on it. He''ll show up, or he''ll be absent. I''m not willing to kidnap him to force him to go where I want him to.


    Unlike some people.


    ''Any more bizarreness from Charles?''


    ''Not since lunch. I''m not looking forwards to whatever he plans to do, though. I should probably be glad he''s occupied himself with something other than my downfall -''


    I remember what he said.


    ''Oh.''


    Lionel glances over.


    ''I think Pitch gave his blessing for me to date you. Like he thinks he''s your Dad.''


    Lionel''s laugh comes out as a splutter.


    ''He''d be a terrible father! Can you imagine it?''


    I can. The thought makes me nauseous. Would his children even be allowed to sneeze without permission?


    ''Ugh.''


    The sound is involuntary.


    ''So what about it then?''


    ''What?''


    ''You dating me?''


    You didn''t...


    Lionel looks calm and collected, not like someone who just asked their crush out. I hope he''s joking.


    ''That''d be a very bad idea.''


    He doesn''t show any sign he''s distressed.


    Can I rest easy, or is he just hiding it well?


    I''d never considered him as a possible partner. I feel hypocritical thinking about it now - his ex-girlfriend was right. He doesn''t have enough ambition.


    He doesn''t have to hide under his parent''s wing like some frightened fledgeling chick. He could stand on his own. He has interpersonal skills that Jaq could only dream of, and he seems far, far more streetwise. He''d be fine out in the world by himself.


    That might even be all it took for him to shift from the ''definitely no'' category to a ''maybe?''


    He gives a lop-sided smile.


    ''Why so serious?''


    The question startles me out of my distraction.


    ''I wasn''t sure if you were serious.''


    He laughs.


    I still don''t know.


    <hr>


    We arrive at the bar - it was Director Hollis'' choice. I think it might be his favourite place to drink. He always brings the cast here. I step out while Lionel continues on in search of a parking spot.


    Inside, I see familiar faces. People are in their costumes for the last time, looking strange without the right hair and makeup. I spot Charles'' stuffed tiger seated at the bar, wearing a flat cap and a tie. Even out here on the street, I can hear their laughter. I feel a nostalgic pull, dragging me in to be among them.


    This is where I belong. This is home.


    I open the door, and the volume raises from clamorous to cacophonous. I feel a smile wider than I''ve smiled in days impose itself on my face.


    Stella''s cheerful orange dress stands out among the costumes of the other cast members. I dash towards it to hug Casey.


    ''It''s done! You were fantastic!''


    She turns, giggling and hugging me back.


    ''You''re here!''


    She looks around.


    ''Where''s Jaques?''


    I shrug, grimacing.


    ''He had some stuff to do, so he''s coming separately.''


    I know it''s not a good look.


    ''That boy needs a talking to! Anyone would think he was neglecting you.''


    I try to laugh it off, but she sees straight through me.


    ''Oh my god, Jo, you deserve better than that! It''s his fault you''re being harassed by that lunatic, the least he can do is go places with you occasionally!''


    The second the words leave her mouth, I see several sets of eyes turn to observe us.


    ''Who''s harassing you?''


    Dammit, Casey.


    At least she has the decency to look ashamed of herself.


    Sal''s not a tall man, but he''s bulky. He often finds himself typecast as the antagonist, in complete contrast to his real personality. In this production he was just a card-playing goon. His costume makes him look like a 1940''s dock worker.


    ''Nobody''s harassing me anymore. I''m fine.''


    He looks a little hurt.


    ''Just ''cuz you''re marrying someone rich and famous doesn''t mean we''re not here for you.''


    ''I know.''


    It wasn''t that I didn''t want help, or didn''t think they could help me - I didn''t want to be a burden. Everyone was busy. I didn''t want to be in the way.


    Already bored, those watching eyes turn away again - unsatisfied with the lack of immediate drama.


    Sal looks up at something behind me - Lionel stands close by - I can feel the cold night air still clinging to his clothes.


    ''Hi! Um. Ch... Sh... Charlotte?''


    Casey laughs.


    ''Casey.''


    ''Ah, sorry!''


    He holds his hand out to Sal.


    ''I''m Lionel.''


    Sal regards the hand with suspicion for a moment before he shakes it.


    ''Sal.''


    The joy of seeing all my friends again in one place almost made me forget that I hate parties. There is nothing less interesting than introductions and pleasantries, except perhaps being made to answer the same prying questions over and over, or repeating the same anecdote for people who haven''t yet heard it.


    At least I know nobody here would ever try to have me kidnapped.


    They''re all just theatre nerds, hanging out, having fun, enjoying the catharsis of heavy drinking and poor volume control after the stress of performing on stage, night after night. A party with these people is infinitely more bearable than a party with the kinds of people Frances invites to her parties.


    Not that I''ve been to more than one of hers.


    This party has the added benefit of it being completely fine for me to find a corner and encamp myself there. I don''t have to introduce myself to anyone. They already know me. They know I''m bad at parties. I don''t have to pretend to be perfect.


    Somewhere back near the door, I hear a high-pitched squeal - not entirely unusual - but there''s a certain timbre of excitement to the squeal that makes me turn around.


    It''s Jaq.


    Just when I thought I could relax.


    He''s in his regular suit and tie ensemble, with his regulation awful hair. In this light, it looks unnatural, like a toupee.


    I''m suddenly embarrassed that he''ll be introduced as my fianc¨¦.


    I don''t want people to think that I''m that shallow. Money, fame, and one skill don''t make him a good person.


    I can''t pretend to be lovey-dovey with him either. They''ll see through it and think I''m manipulating him to get at his money.


    I know I wanted him to come, it was such a good opportunity to make our relationship look real for his parents... but it never occurred to me to consider how it would affect me. My reputation. My standing as a member of this group.


    I don''t want to be made an outsider.


    Ollie leads him over to us. He''s pretending to be helpful, but I can tell he''s doing it as an excuse to get in on this conversation. He''s so nosy.


    Casey cheerfully chirps;


    ''Hi Jaques! I was worried you wouldn''t come!''


    The tone of disapproval underneath the friendly surface isn''t subtle.


    Our small group shuffles around to make space for the latecomers as greetings are exchanged. In the way of small groups, it is a negotiation of hierarchy of attachment. Space ought to be made beside me for Jaq, but as I move closer to Casey, Sal follows; protectively placing himself between me and the unfamiliar new person.


    Sal''s papa-bear instincts must have been set off by the harassment comment - but this is ridiculous.


    Jaq seems put off by the snub. I''m almost surprised he noticed it. He doesn''t remember that he''s met Casey before.


    I suppose he''s only met her once. All the times he should have been with me and met her, Lionel has taken his place.


    I reverse course, trying to make space on the other side of me, but Sal blocks my movement, stubbornly refusing to allow the space to appear. Ollie sees what''s happening, bless him, and forces his way into the group. Ollie isn''t a threat, so finally Sal relents and lets me shift around - only to halt again when Ollie steps out so Jaq can step in. He scampers off with a backwards glance that says ''you owe me.''


    Jaq''s smug expression won''t endear him to Sal. He might as well be waving a red flag at a bull.


    I don''t have the capacity to endure this kind of masculine posturing right now.


    The conversation revolves around Jaq and how he met me. They ask him; forcing him to take centre stage. I''m thankful for the chance to remain silent. He remembers the backstory we devised, and despite his social ineptitude, his responses sound sincere. My friends are shocked by how long we''ve been ''dating,'' because I said nothing to them about it.


    ''I asked her to keep it a secret,'' he says.


    The last time he spoke about this stuff he was so stiff and guarded. He struggled to answer direct questions.


    Perhaps he felt bad lying to his friends after all.


    Here, among my friends, his lies flow almost naturally.


    I hate it.


    I hate all of this.


    I want to go home.


    Something orange and fluffy lands on my head, and a flat cap falls down in front of me.


    Ollie has the tiger.


    Was he that desperate for gossip?


    ''Hey, Mr. Jaques, I want to j''accuse you of being the person who sent us this guy. You were the anonymous supporter all along weren''t you? It''s very romantic of you to secretly support your girlfriend''s theatre company.''


    That''s not how that phrase works.


    Jaq looks stunned.


    ''Why would I send a tiger?''


    I stoop to collect the hat from the floor so I have time to organise a suitably puzzled expression.


    ''It wasn''t him.''


    It''s Lionel''s turn to look smug.


    I place the hat back on the toy''s head, tucking the ears inside in the hopes that they''ll help wedge it in place. I feel a cold sweat begin to prickle along my spine. He wouldn''t tell them it was me, would he?


    Lionel continues;


    ''I know who bought it, but I can''t tell you who. I can tell you they''re not here, though.''

 19. Remember

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Tuesday</h2>


    I sit in Lionel''s car, missing the days when I had a predictable work schedule. These random lunches and dinners being sprung on me without warning make it impossible to plan ahead. I had wanted to visit Casey - apparently, a letter arrived for me at the old house this morning. It''s as good an excuse as any to go back and check in on everyone.


    I feel guilty after last night. Parties aren''t good places to discuss problems and repair misunderstandings.


    They''re great places to create new problems and misunderstandings.


    I feel self-satisfied due to the vindication of my judgement that Casey couldn''t be trusted to keep a secret.


    I hate that I feel this way.


    I text her asking her to open the letter and let me know if it''s an overdue bill or something important.


    It''s probably junk. Most of my bills are set to autopay... or they were until my account changed. I''m pretty sure I changed everything over. Other than that, the only letters I''d ever receive would come from my lawyer or accountant, and they don''t have my old address on file.


    I wonder if living at a hotel counts as being homeless. I suppose it does.


    My phone rings.


    ''Hey, Jo, um. The letter. It''s... well, it says that the uni has reopened the investigation into your expulsion. Something about ''new evidence''. They want you to go in tomorrow.''


    ''Fuck. He actually did it.''


    ''Who did? What?''


    ''I''m sorry. I don''t think I can properly explain it yet. I don''t know exactly what''s happening... but hopefully this is a good thing.''


    Casey''s concern for me is clear. I feel like I do nothing but worry her. Once I hang up, Lionel says;


    ''That sounded serious.''


    I''m worrying him too.


    ''Yeah. I think Pitch went through with his plan to get me un-expelled.''


    ''I see why you only said you were hoping that it''s a good thing.''


    I laugh.


    ''I didn''t think they''d listen... He must have found more than just a fingerprint.''


    ''How did you even get expelled? I didn''t think that was a real thing that happened to people unless you were literally caught in the act of murdering another student on campus.''


    I laugh again. I probably shouldn''t.


    ''I was accused of plagiarism. The really obvious, unambiguous kind.''


    ''You said you were innocent - how do you get falsely accused of something like that?''


    ''Someone else stole my work.''


    ''But they... won?''


    ''Yeah.''


    I watch the clouds in the sky, reminiscing about the time I spent at that infernal university.


    ''I knew from a pretty young age that I wouldn''t be able to do anything other than art as a career for long. I didn''t study art because I thought the degree would help me get work as an artist, either - my parents made it abundantly clear that the degree was close to worthless. I didn''t even have to go to study it formally; I could have kept working on my skills on my own... but I don''t do well when I''m isolated. I need people. I needed the inbuilt community that comes with becoming a student at a place like that. I was doing well. I made plenty of friends. We''d support each other''s exhibitions. We''d keep each other up to date when galleries were looking for new talent. I could always rely on them to make good suggestions when I was stuck. The accusation destroyed all those friendships. I haven''t spoken to any of them since... and given the chance... I don''t think I''d want to. They abandoned me without so much as a second thought.''


    <hr>


    I hurried into the workshop, ignoring my staring classmates completely. The tutor for Sculpture 301 stood, gazing intently into the pigeonhole where my work had been stored.


    ''Sorry, kiddo. Looks like your vandal came by again.''


    Damp clay fragments littered the floor. Most of it was still contained within the pigeonhole, but the stack of pieces was precarious at best.


    ''Fuck. Why''s it always mine?''


    ''Don''t know. You''ll have to ask them when you catch them.''


    ''Fuck.''


    Impotent rage turned my guts into spiders. I wanted to break the vandal''s face.


    Enraged rumination didn''t seem like a helpful course of action.


    I bent down to collect the bits of debris that looked more obviously like they belonged to me. The clay could still be used. I just needed to spray down the parts that had dried out a little. No reason to let it get trodden into the tiles. Clay costs money, after all.


    The tutor stepped aside to let me get into the pigeonhole, saying impassively;


    ''I really think you should consider renting private workshop space.''


    ''You know I can''t afford it.''


    ''You can''t share with any of your friends?''


    ''I already asked everyone.''


    He was trying to be helpful, but he only ever managed to be condescending. How stupid did he think I was? This happened almost every single day since I started the piece. As if I hadn''t asked literally everyone I knew for help. Campus security was totally useless, after all. ''We don''t have cameras in that area,'' they said. ''It''s not in the budget to assign a guard for your project in particular,'' they said.


    If I had somewhere else to go, I''d already be there.


    Fucking arseholes.


    ''...I don''t want to risk being accused of giving you preferential treatment... but I''ll see if I can find someone with space you can use.''


    ''Seriously? Thanks.''


    ''No promises.''


    The following day; I had a corner in a workshop just down the street from the uni. It was tiny and I had to play maid for the other tenants to pay for it, but I was grateful.


    I worked hard to catch up on the deadline. Late nights. Early mornings. I was too busy to notice how lonely I was. Finally, it was done. Nothing went wrong with the firing. Even the glaze came out perfect. I handed it in and waited, expecting to get back a good grade.


    Instead, I got called into a disciplinary hearing.


    ''Your work is almost identical to another student''s - down to the reference photos submitted with your exegeses.''


    I didn''t know how to respond, or who to respond to. There were three people in the room, all wearing the same imperious expression. I hoped I looked innocent. All I felt was anger.


    ''Your tutor has informed us that you were the target of a persistent vandal in the first weeks of the semester.''


    ''That''s correct.''


    ''He said that often artists with similar influences produce similar art, and suggested that, due to the stress you were under, you may have unconsciously shifted your focus from whatever you had been working on closer to this-'' he indicated a photo of my work ''- because you kept seeing the other student''s reference pictures around the workshop.''


    It was garbage.


    ''No, this was my plan from the beginning. I can prove it. I brought in all my notes and all my research. You can have a look for yourself.''


    I place the paint-stained folder on the table in front of me. It looks unimpressive. Uneven, dog-eared pages stick out at odd angles. The group regards it the same way they might regard the contents of a month-old lunch box they discovered in the back of a staffroom fridge.


    ''There will be no need for that. We''ve spoken with the other student and, considering your past record, we have decided we will allow you to leave with a warning. This is not to happen again.''


    ''A warning? I did nothing wrong!''


    ''You are dismissed.''


    There was no appeals process for warnings - as far as the faculty was concerned, I hadn''t been punished, so I didn''t have any reason to ask for an appeal.


    Second semester started. I wanted to return to the communal workshop at uni - to be back with my friends.


    I was scared of the vandal reappearing.


    I decided that I had to at least give it a try - so I walked to the big double doors at the front of the building. From inside, I heard people talking;


    ''Yeah, apparently she got off with just a warning. I mean, I do feel really bad she was targeted by that vandal, but that''s no reason to steal other people''s work. She should have just simplified her original plan so she could meet the deadline.''


    I stood frozen to the spot, listening like some pervert outside a changing room. Another voice responded;


    ''I thought she was cool, I can''t believe she''d do something like that.''


    A third said;


    ''I saw her at the lecture yesterday. If I''d been caught plagiarising, I think I''d have dropped out in shame.''


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Laughter.


    I had no way to prove I wasn''t at fault. The disciplinary board wouldn''t even look at my evidence, and that was their job. These people owed me nothing. They wouldn''t care. I had become a thief, so anything I did or said would be suspect.


    I turned around and went back to the little workshop. I asked if they''d let me keep using the corner in exchange for chores. They agreed. They said they were relieved I''d come back. They were glad to have me. They said it was the tidiest the workshop had ever been. I didn''t ask if they''d heard about what happened. I didn''t want to risk them deciding I was a liability.


    I got the first anonymous text message telling me to drop out that afternoon.


    I didn''t know who the ''other student'' was, who the vandal was, if the two might be related, or if anyone in the class thought I could be innocent. There was no one to confront. Nobody I could safely confide in.


    I spent as little time as possible on campus, only meeting the minimum attendance requirements.


    The text messages got meaner; more personal.


    The only reason I could cope at all was because I had my share house full of theatre nerds. They kept me sane.


    Filled with dread, I submitted my final assignment.


    I received another summons.


    The ''other student'' was there this time. The whole damn class came along to support him.


    I brought carefully catalogued and dated notes. Photographs of every step of my sculpting process. I brought a printout of every draft of my exegesis.


    He had the same exact evidence. It was like he knew what I''d been doing to protect myself.


    Once the initial hearing was over, I was cornered. Shouted at. Told to kill myself. How dare I try to ruin someone''s life like that? What did he ever do to me? They accused me of faking the vandalism so I could get special treatment from the tutor and free private workshop space. They said the fact I was in a private space at all was proof of my guilt. It allowed me to hide the fact I was stealing someone else''s work.


    He hadn''t been in the group that confronted me.


    I couldn''t find the tutor to question him.


    I was locked out of the workshop.


    I shouldn''t have gone back to the second hearing. I should have known that there was no point.


    I wanted to tell them that I''d been cheated from the beginning. That there had been a whole grand conspiracy to get access to my work. That the tutor had sold me out to this student.


    Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.


    I had nothing.


    I was expelled.


    <hr>


    ''Why did they do that to you?''


    ''If you''d asked me then I might have said it was because someone had an irrational grudge against me. In reality, it was probably because I was the easiest target.''


    I wasn''t thinking clearly back then. I''d been hurt and was scared the whole world was out to get me. I''ve always had a propensity for seeing the world through the lens of dramatic narrative... I like to believe I can always spot my leaps of logic and identify where I''ve fantasised wild explanations without any evidence. Back then, I''d gone so far past logic and rationality that it would have been impossible for me to untangle the truth.


    ''I don''t actually know if the vandal was part of it, or if it was just an unlucky coincidence. I don''t know if the tutor was in on it. I don''t know why the other student didn''t just pay someone to do his assignment for him. Maybe he did, and they just happened to be a tenant at the private workshop, and that person decided to steal my work because it was right there, and... maybe they thought I deserved it because I was a freeloader.''


    I shrug.


    ''In the end, I don''t think it matters why. These things happen. Someone''s going to be hurt. That time, it was me. It could easily have been anyone else in the class.''


    It feels nihilistic to admit out loud that it was probably just a random set of coincidences that made me the victim.


    There''s a strange comfort to being chosen as a victim. If I were carefully selected via some kind of exacting criteria, then it happened because I was worthy. If I just happened to be a chump stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, then my suffering becomes less meaningful. Trivial. Unimportant.


    I become unimportant.


    I know, in the grand scheme of things, I am unimportant.


    I just like to fantasize about being special.


    Lionel opens the car door for me, letting me out onto the street. I hadn''t even noticed we''d stopped.


    The air is crisp. I smell seawater. I hear gulls.


    We must be near the bay.


    I feel like a deflated rubber ball. I haven''t told anyone about this stuff for a long time. If someone kicks me now... well, I won''t bounce.


    ''Would your parents be terribly disappointed if I ditched right now?''


    ''Father wouldn''t care. Mother might blow her lid, though.''


    Always Frances.


    ''Do they always want to spend this much time with you when they''re in the country?''


    ''No, this is pretty weird.''


    I inhale deeply, a vain attempt to reinflate myself.


    ''Okay. Let''s go in.''


    Inside, again, are Isaac, Frances, Jaq and Charles.


    ''Why is he here again?'' I whisper to Lionel.


    ''No idea,'' he whispers back.


    The route we take to reach the table leads us behind Charles.


    ''Why is his hand on your Mother''s knee?'' I whisper, before blindly bumping into Lionel. He''s faltered in the middle of the walkway and is staring.


    ''I... have no idea.''


    I nudge him to get him to move.


    Finally, we reach the table.


    I''m too stunned to participate in the conversation in anything more than the most perfunctory manner. I don''t understand what''s going on.


    Is he sleeping with both of them?


    Does Frances know?


    Does Jaq know?


    Is that why Jaq tried to ghost him?


    No wonder Jaq was refusing to speak to him at all.


    I really am stupid.


    Oh my god.


    I try not to gawk at Frances openly flirting with Charles.


    Isaac is right there.


    Does he not care?


    Isaac seems especially dour and sullen today - I guess he does care. Why doesn''t he say something?


    He places his empty wine glass on the table.


    ''I think I''ll be heading home early.''


    Frances'' glance of contempt is cutting.


    ''You don''t have to come with me, dear. One of the boys will give me a lift back.''


    He fishes his keys out of his pocket and drops them beside his glass. Frances takes them.


    Lionel nods and gathers his coat.


    I watch them leave, wishing I could go with them.


    Jaq looks nervous.


    ''Mother... would it be alright if we go as well?''


    She nods curtly. Jaq takes my hand and helps me out of my chair.


    We leave the two lovebirds alone at the table. I resist the urge to look back. I''m sure I''ll see something I don''t want to.


    We reach Jaq''s car before he speaks;


    ''I didn''t understand why you wanted me to talk to Charles...but I think you were right. He''s not going away... I just really don''t know what to say to him.''


    I''m confused. Doesn''t he know I already spoke to Charles? Isn''t that why he''s been avoiding me? I guess I shouldn''t explain myself now. Instead, I say;


    ''I get it if you don''t want me to pry... but it would really help if you''d tell me what''s going on.''


    ''I don''t know either. We''ve been friends since school. We''d hang out at each other''s houses. He wasn''t always around; sometimes he''d be out of school for months. Now, he kind of just comes and goes. I don''t know why he''s so obsessed with you. It''s weird. He''s always had a dozen girlfriends, but not any more. I''ve never seen him alone for so long.''


    Wait a minute.


    ''So you really weren''t dating him?''


    Jaq looks hurt.


    ''No, never. Why do you keep saying I''m gay?''


    ''I didn''t say you were gay. I assume everyone is both interested and disinterested in every kind of person until they give me evidence to the contrary.''


    ''What does that mean?''


    ''I have no idea what kind of people you''re into. I''ve never seen you show any interest. That makes you Schr?dinger''s romantic. I''m not making assumptions.''


    He looks even more hurt.


    ''I''m interested in you.''


    Please don''t say things like that. You''re not interested in me. You can''t be interested in me.


    ''That doesn''t mean it''s impossible for you to have been interested in a man in the past. Bisexual people exist.''


    ''Okay, okay, I get it. But I''ve never been interested in men.''


    ''Does Pitch know that?''


    ''Why do you think he''s gay?''


    ''He doesn''t have to be gay - again, people can like both.''


    He looks confused and annoyed. It''s not getting through. I sigh. I''d really rather not bare my soul to this idiot, but I need him to stop dismissing the possibility. I say;


    ''I like both.''


    Jaq looks startled by my admission. It shouldn''t be that shocking... though I guess my friends do form a protective bubble of people who are particularly disinterested in policing other people''s sexuality. I forget that''s not the norm everywhere. Jaq''s family does seem aggressively heterosexual.


    ''Fine. We''ve never ever been in a romantic anything, and I don''t think he likes men.''


    This is perplexing.


    ''Then why would he be so persistent about getting rid of me? The only thing I can think of is that he deluded himself into believing you two were an item and was jealous and upset about you being with someone else.''


    ''Well, it''s not that.''


    I still think Jaq could have missed the signs. He''s really awkward about sex in general. The thought of a woman changing clothes in another room is enough to make him blush, so I doubt he''s well versed in the subtler arts of seduction. Would he notice the little things? Lingering glances, persistent smiles, minute shifts in tone of voice, suggestive turns of phrase?


    If I ask too many questions about it, he''s going to get angry with me. I''m sure he''d say he''s not homophobic, but he''s clearly upset by the suggestion he might like men, or men might like him.


    I drop the subject.


    When we arrive at the estate, I realise I forgot to ask to be taken to the hotel.


    It''s fine. I can use the opportunity to investigate some more.


    I should have taken a private investigator course instead of my stupid Bachelor of Arts. If I''d been falsely accused of plagiarism there, they might have investigated properly, and then this whole debacle could have been avoided.


    Once in the house, Jaq makes himself scarce; leaving me to wander aimlessly.


    If you were genuinely interested in me, Jaq, you wouldn''t be running off like that already.


    Does he just not know how affection works?


    I suppose I can''t blame him for that. I''ve met his mother.


    I haven''t yet fully explored the estate. I''ve been a combination of too busy and too scared to go anywhere on my own. It''d be rude to just open doors at random and peek inside. I don''t want to accidentally snoop around in a staff member''s bedroom.


    Wait, do the staff live here? That''s something that happened way back when there were feudal lords. It can''t be a thing anymore, can it?


    I push my curiosity aside. It''s not useful.


    If Jaq won''t accompany me, I don''t have a lot of options. Be a creep or stick to the areas I know.


    I know where the family albums are kept - perhaps there are school photos there I can look at. Maybe I''ll see something hinting at the true nature of the relationship between Jaq and Charles.


    I want to slap myself. I know this is inadequate. I know I have to do something far more drastic.


    I don''t want to involve innocent bystanders by mistake.


    Entering the room with the albums, I discover Isaac.


    ''Oh, hello Joanne. Sorry you had to see that.''


    This is much better than photo albums.


    He''s alone. He''s drunk. He might let something slip.


    And now I''m honestly thinking about manipulating a drunk man into telling me family secrets.


    Without a shadow of a doubt; I''m a bad person.


    ''Are you okay?'' I ask.


    ''Me? I''m fine. I deserve it. I just wish she wouldn''t do it in front of the boys.''


    Do I ask?


    ''Why do you think you deserve it?''


    Never mind asking what ''it'' is. I can guess.


    He squints at me, as though not entirely sure why I''d ask such a silly question.


    ''Because I cheated on her.''


    Ah.


    ''And now... she''s cheating on you with a younger man.''


    He laughs.


    ''She probably isn''t. She was always so uptight about those sorts of things. I just can''t say anything. I''d be a hypocrite.''


    He raises his glass to his mouth and pauses, thinking.


    ''She''d love it if I did say something. It''d be all ''hypocrite'' this, ''hypocrisy'' that.''


    I sit on a nearby lounge chair.


    ''Then why is she trying to get Jaq to rush into a marriage? Wouldn''t that make cheating more likely?''


    He laughs.


    ''She''s doing that because she doesn''t trust me to look after him when she''s gone. She''s busy dying of cancer, but I''m still just a spare tyre to her.''


    I can''t help but stare at him in stunned silence.


    ''She''s dying?''


    He nods.


    ''Stage four.''


    She doesn''t look unwell.


    Or does she? Maybe I haven''t noticed because I haven''t been looking. Maybe that''s why she doesn''t want to see her friends. They''d know.


    ''I''m really sorry to hear that.''


    He scoffs.


    ''Rubbish. She''s been nothing but trouble for you since you arrived. I can see why Jaques didn''t want to introduce you to us.''


    I wonder why they never filed for divorce.


    I really can''t ask.


    I want to cheer him up, but I don''t know what to say. Every topic seems like a potential landmine.


    ''How about we play a game of cards?''


    He smiles like a child that just received an unexpected slice of cake.


    ''I''m glad Jaques met you. If at least one of my boys is happy, then maybe I haven''t been a total failure of a father.''


    Except that I''m helping Jaq foil his mother''s plan to ensure he''s cared for. My presence is not proof that anyone will be happy.


    Can I, in good conscience, continue to play along?


    I''m not really doing this ''in good conscience'' to begin with.


    I don''t want to give up on identifying as a decent person.


    I''m pretty sure I''m deluding myself.


    Would it be enough to try to teach Jaq how to be independent? Do I have to stick around and babysit him?


    I can see that exploding in my face the second I say something he doesn''t like.


    What about Lionel? Why hasn''t he been included in this scheme? He seems more capable than Jaq. Couldn''t they ask him to help look after his brother?


    I guess that would be unfair.


    Having located the deck of cards, I place the box on the table and sit across from Isaac.


    ''How about Rummy?''


    He looks thoughtful for a moment.


    ''Gin Rummy is better.''


    ''Gin Rummy it is.''


    I shuffle the cards and hand them to him to deal. He takes them and asks;


    ''Why haven''t you moved into the house yet? Don''t tell me Jaques hasn''t invited you.''


    That was unexpected. I try to laugh it off;


    ''I think he''s worried he''ll scare me off before the wedding. I''m a light sleeper.''


    ''Pish posh. We have spare rooms. You don''t have to sleep in his.''


    It sounds dangerous. With all my rubbish in a room in the estate, it¡¯d take Frances three minutes of prying to work out that I¡¯m not merely poor. I¡¯m degenerate gutter trash.


    It''s what Charles concluded.


    ''I don''t want to impose.''


    Isaac snorts.


    ''You can move in tomorrow.''


    If I were in the house, I''d be under even more pressure to perform constantly.


    ''It would probably be better to wait until-''


    ''Nonsense. We''re not living in the dark ages. Nobody in their right mind saves that sort of thing for marriage anymore.''


    I suppose he''s a stubborn drunk. It would be easier to change the subject.


    I pick my cards up off the table and examine them.


    ''I believe you''ve given me a gin hand.''


    ''What? Impossible!''

 20. Beyond Expectations

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Wednesday</h2>


    I wait patiently on the uncomfortable seat provided in the administrative waiting area. I hate how familiar and homey the smell of this place is. I spent three years here, so I suppose it had to leave some impression on me.


    I''m frustrated that they''re keeping me waiting still, even after this long. I reread the letter; they''re reassessing my expulsion. New evidence. There''s nothing more specific. I marvel at the short notice given for the appointment. I''m lucky I had Casey check the contents of the envelope, or I wouldn''t be here. If I were absent, then would they go through with the reassessment?


    The man that comes to collect me from the waiting room looks almost offended that I exist.


    ''Your new employer is causing problems,'' he says, like I know what he''s talking about.


    I''m shown to a seat in a room with several people - one sits beside me, as though he''s a lawyer representing me in court.


    Two sculptures dominate the table. One is mine. My poor broken garbage heap. It''s sprinkled liberally with little self-adhesive notes. The ones I can read seem to be describing fingerprints.


    I had no idea I left so many prints embedded in my work. Perhaps I got lazy about smoothing them out, I might have assumed that the glaze would hide them.


    I brought all the evidence that had been ignored last time - I wasn''t asked to. I thought I might need it. I put the heavy bag on the table beside my sculpture.


    The man beside me says;


    ''Now that you''ve had plenty of time to review the evidence, I would like to recommend that your organisation voluntarily revise the status of my client''s enrollment. It should be clear to you that she did not participate in any form of academic misconduct, and your previous investigation was inadequate.''


    One of the people on the other side of the table passes a sheet of paper across to the man beside me.


    ''We have already done so, and we trust that you will be satisfied.''


    The man beside me examines the page and then nods curtly.


    ''We will also require an investigation into the other parties involved. The other student, the lecturer, and the members of the tribunal that found against my client.''


    The people on the other side of the table begin to speak all at once.


    They''re not paying attention to me, so I surreptitiously slide the page towards myself so I can read it. It''s an academic transcript. With my name on it. It says I graduated. I only got 76% in the class I was expelled from, but that''s 76% more than I had before. P''s get degrees, and that''d be a Distinction, not just a Pass.


    With this, I have all I need from these people. I don''t need any further investigation.


    I look at the people around me. The unknown representative is cool and calm. The ones who seem to represent the university are assorted shades of angry and agitated.


    I''m fairly sure I''m not supposed to be here.


    I hold the transcript with both hands.


    I worry it will be snatched away from me, or dissolve into dust.


    I feel lightheaded.


    The argument lasts far too long - the university thinks it''s too much to ask them to investigate something that happened so long ago. ''My'' representative tells them that it''s ridiculous that they allowed this ''obvious breach of justice,'' and they should be glad that ''his client'' didn''t take the issue straight to the tertiary education accreditation agency. That silences them. He mentions the possibility of talking to the board of investors. They start to look green.


    Charles is having this lawyer threaten them on my behalf.


    Was it really so obvious that I was wrongfully expelled? Can he really threaten them like this?


    Why go this far?


    I''m worried that Charles is doing this so that I owe him something.


    I still don''t know what he wants from me. I can''t help but worry. Whatever it is, he has decided I''m more valuable to keep around than whatever money he''s spending on harassing the university. That frightens me.


    When the meeting ends, the representative walks out into the quad with me.


    ''I didn''t think you''d be coming. It''s nice to meet you.''


    He holds out his hand.


    I shake it, timidly.


    ''I got a letter asking me to come.''


    I show him the letter.


    ''Oh, you could have ignored that. It''s just a formality. They have to notify all parties involved, but you didn''t have to attend.''


    I nod, though I''m still confused.


    ''Why are you demanding a bigger investigation?''


    He smiles at me.


    ''You don''t know? Perhaps it would be better if you spoke about that with your employer. He was quite adamant that we push for more than just the revised enrolment.''


    My employer.


    ''Charles Pitch,'' I say, probably redundantly.


    Yep. Okay. This is totally normal. He''s telling people I work for him.


    Actually, I think I suggested he do that.


    I shouldn''t have said anything. Too late now.


    I walk to the bus on autopilot - get on, swipe my ticket, sit down, wait. I''m in such a daze I don''t recall getting off the bus, I just suddenly find myself standing in front of the old house. I didn''t entirely mean to come here.


    Lucky I didn''t miss the stop, or I''d be stuck waiting for a return bus somewhere super weird.


    The old house seems pretty busy for midday on a weekday, though the last production just ended, so perhaps some of them haven''t gone back to their day jobs yet. I envy them their well-defined working and non-working hours.


    I greet old housemates as I carry the precious page through the chaotic front room and down the hall to Casey''s room. She sees me from the corner of her eye as I approach the open door, and takes off her headphones.


    ''Back from the thing?''


    I hold out the paper.


    She takes it to read, mumbling as she rapidly makes her way down the page, brow furrowed in concentration.


    ''...enrolment status.... GRADUATED?!''


    She jumps up and throws her arms around me.


    ''I''m so happy for you!''


    I hug her back - her excitement seems to shatter my vague sense of trepidation. I feel euphoric.


    ''I still can''t believe it happened - There was a random lawyer guy there I''ve never met before - it seemed like I wasn''t even supposed to be there at the meeting.''


    ''But they sent you a letter!''


    ''I know! The guy said it was a formality and I could have ignored it.''


    ''But you went, and it''s fixed!''


    I break out of the hug and go back to close the door. That done, I whisper;


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ''I still don''t know if it''s a good thing - it could still be bad. Pitch did it.''


    ''Wait, what? How? Why?''


    Euphoria already spent, I feel tendrils of panic begin to emerge from beneath the confusion.


    ''I don''t know, I don''t know. I think he might be doing it to apologise, but maybe he wants something from me, I don''t know. I don''t understand what''s happening, or why he''s doing this.''


    She hugs me again.


    ''What does Jaques say?''


    I haven''t asked him. I didn''t think to even mention it to him.


    ''I don''t know yet.''


    ''Why don''t you tell him?''


    ''...I don''t know.''


    I''m pretty sure he won''t have anything useful to say. I should be speaking to my lawyer. I can at least trust her to be level-headed.


    I''m not sure she''ll have anything valuable to say either.


    <hr>


    I''m approached by a woman with a lanyard as I make my way up the hotel stairs.


    ''Excuse me, Ms. Knight?''


    I pause at her use of my name;


    ''That''s me?''


    ''Ms. Knight, in what capacity are you employed by Charles Pitch?''


    I frown.


    That''s news? Already? Did someone at the university leak my fake job to the press? I only say;


    ''Excuse me?''


    ''Is he about to release a new album?''


    I assume so. If you stop releasing stuff you stop being popular, right?


    I probably shouldn''t say that.


    ''I don''t know.''


    ''What project are you currently working on?''


    What''s that thing politicians say?


    ''Uh... no comment?''


    ''What about-''


    ''Still no comment.''


    I push through the front door, hoping hotel security might intimidate her into staying outside. She doesn''t follow.


    Thank the heavens for small favours.


    I feel like I''m dragging my feet down the brightly lit corridor to my room. Once I''m inside, I''ll need to make that call to the lawyer. I really don''t want to.


    How am I supposed to teach a grown man to behave like an adult when I can''t even make myself complete a chore like ''tell the lawyer about my current legal troubles.''


    She''s almost more like a therapist.


    I probably need one of those.


    I might even be able to afford one now, too.


    My phone starts ringing as I reach the door.


    Unknown number.


    Please don''t tell me the press have my phone number, too.


    I answer;


    ''Hello?''


    ''You answered quickly for once, Jojo.''


    Oh no. Anyone but him.


    ''What do you want?''


    ''So cold. I hear you attended the meeting this morning - that was very diligent of you.''


    ''Yeah, thanks for fixing that.''


    Do I ask why he''s threatening the uni? Before I can decide, he says;


    ''No problem, honey. Now you''re all set for your new job!''


    ''You''re not serious.''


    ''I am, completely. It''s already been announced. You''re going to build sets for my new music video. I''ll be needing a lot, so you''ll be a busy little bee for a good while.''


    ''How can you announce something I haven''t agreed to?''


    ''Oh, but you will. I pay well.''


    I roll my eyes.


    ''Why me? Surely you have other people who''d do a better job.''


    ''You misunderstand. I''m doing this as a favour for you. I don''t want you getting bored and leaving Jack early.''


    ''What?''


    ''I need you to stick with him until the end, so here''s something fun for you; to keep you occupied.''


    ''Why?''


    ''I can''t tell you all my plans, that''d ruin the mystery.''


    I grit my teeth. His incessantly sunny tone makes this entire conversation just a little more unbearable.


    ''Anyway, the contract should be delivered to you in about ten minutes. I guarantee you''ll like the terms. If you do well, you''ll probably be in quite a bit of demand once you''re done.''


    Once he hangs up, I drop the phone in the empty garbage bin in the kitchenette.


    It''s a meaningless act of retaliation.


    I fish it back out.


    I can''t deny that having my name attached to a popular music video would help me immensely. I might even have a career ahead of me, rather than a bleak struggle to get enough for the barest necessities.


    Conversely, if I refuse now, after he''s announced it, that might be a strike against me. Something to prevent me from being hired by anyone in the future.


    I don''t know how to feel about any of this.


    There''s always just... a piece missing. The foundational piece that makes all the other pieces make sense. I wish I were Sherlock Holmes. Hercule Poirot. Nancy Drew. Any of them would have worked out it was... I don''t know. The reverend in the study with the candlestick. Then I would understand what''s going on, and I could make plans that made sense, instead of bumbling my way through with nothing but blind (and fading) optimism.


    On top of all this, he''s still watching me. How else would he have known exactly when to call so I''d be here alone?


    I sit down on the couch, exhausted.


    There''s a knock at the door.


    I curse.


    Of course, the delivery guy had to arrive the second I sat down.


    While I''m grumbling to myself, I receive a text;


    <blockquote>


    You in?


    </blockquote>


    It''s Jaq, not the contract.


    I let him in, exasperated.


    ''What are you doing here?''


    ''I''m sorry. I should have called first.''


    Despite my initial irritation, I''m a little relieved he''s here. I feel safer accepting a package from Charles now that I have backup.


    ''It''s fine. I have a use for you.''


    ''A use? Other than helping you pack?''


    Pack?


    He looks panicked by my confusion.


    ''Father told me you''d agreed to move to the estate. He said I should help you.''


    He was serious about that?


    ''He commanded me to move in while he was drunk. He wouldn''t accept a ''no'', so I changed the subject.''


    ''I see.''


    He looks awkwardly at his feet.


    ''Then you''re not moving in?''


    Can I get away with saying no?


    If I say yes, I probably won''t be able to move with my friends when they do... but I''d be safer from Charles at Jaq''s house than anywhere they could rent.


    They''d be safer without me.


    Going back to them was a stupid fantasy to hold on to. I''ve already completely lost my chance at rebuilding anything resembling my normal life.


    I groan.


    ''Let me think about it.''


    It''s not that I need to think about my choice. I need time to come to terms with it.


    Jaq shuffles nervously. I point to a chair, and he obediently sits.


    ''You still haven''t asked Frances why she wants you to marry, have you?''


    He hesitates, but he shakes his head.


    ''Isaac told me. I don''t know if it''s okay for me to just tell you. It seems like she wants to keep it a secret.''


    I sigh.


    ''I think it''s unfair for her to keep it a secret from you because it affects you. She''s forcing you to make big life decisions because of something she won''t tell you about. That''s all kinds of messed up.''


    He listens expectantly.


    ''Your mother is dying of cancer.''


    ''Oh.''


    His expression is perfectly deadpan. I expected shock... but I suppose I shouldn''t have. After a moment, he says;


    ''I guess that''s why she said I''d be cut off and lose my inheritance; like it was something I needed to worry about now.''


    ''I guess so.''


    Inheritance of the sort he''s in line for seems like something you should be worried about irrespective of whether it''ll happen soon or in the far distant future. He''s partial heir to who knows how much. Assuming Isaac is as useless as Frances thinks he is, Jaq and Lionel may be stuck doing everything alone. There will be properties they have to manage, and not just this estate; probably businesses she has a controlling share of, some kind of investment portfolio, their mother''s animals, and who knows how many domestic employees. Seeing as she''s had time to consider it all, she''s probably organised some kind of convenient handover process - maybe a whole lot of documentation for all the things she''s got going on now, and if they''re lucky, instructions for future investment. It''ll be complicated and messy. Not everything could be covered in detail in a will; it would require constant revision, and wills need witnesses. It''s a small hurdle, but it''s still bureaucracy that would get in the way while she''s still living her life.


    Jaq''s never had to worry about money before, so why would he worry about any of this? That''s a concern for someone like me.


    Perhaps she''s hired someone as an interim estate manager - to take over while Jaq learns the ropes.


    Or; while Jaq''s wife learns the ropes.


    I''m sure she can see he''s too disinterested in the nitty-gritty of life to bother learning things vitally important to his future comfort.


    She wanted him to find and marry a manager.


    I really said everything she wanted to hear when I told her I had enough experience managing a house for both of us. Now she can die happy, knowing her son won''t starve due to his own wilful ineptitude.


    It feels so much worse, lying to a dying woman like this.


    I don''t even know why her impending death makes a difference. Everyone dies eventually. Why does it matter that I''m lying to someone who''ll die soon?


    If I said no, Jaq would have hired someone else. It''s not my fault that she''s being lied to.


    Except it is. I''m the one actively lying to her.


    I glare at Jaq.


    I want to blame him for everything, to exonerate myself for all my misdeeds.


    I made myself into an abettor.


    I''m just as guilty.


    I might be more guilty - I made it possible for the lie to survive this long. He''d have failed without me. He''d be being forced into a real marriage without me.


    But, that''s not something that should be forced on someone.


    He has every right to want to escape that... and yet she still has every right to put conditions on her will.


    A loud rap at the door alerts me to the arrival of the promised contract.


    I check the peephole - it''s a man in a nondescript uniform. It''s not Charles himself. I shouldn''t feel safer because of that - but I do.


    ''Jaq. Be ready to call Lionel if this guy tries to grab me.''


    ''Why Lionel-''


    ''Do you want cops involved?''


    He shakes his head and takes his phone from his pocket.


    I open the door.


    ''Delivery for Ms. J. Knight?''


    ''That''s me.''


    ''Sign here.''


    I take the offered stylus and scribble on the parcel scanner''s touch interface. The man hands me the package.


    ''Have a good day.''


    He walks away, I shut the door and immediately breathe easier.


    ''What''s that?''


    I glance back at Jaq.


    ''Pitch sent me an employment contract. He said he wants to hire me for a music video.''


    ''That''s good, isn''t it? He''s forgiven you for whatever it was he was upset about.''


    Only Jaq could think this is fine.


    ''He said he wanted me to stay with you.''


    ''Even better!''


    ''Are you sure that''s a good thing?''


    ''Why wouldn''t it be?''


    The reasons are so numerous and obvious that I''m frozen, trying and failing to put them all into words. I give up and ask instead;


    ''Aren''t you worried about what he''s planning?''


    ''No?''


    ''He tried to kidnap me. He poisoned me. You really think this is just totally fine?''


    He pauses, looking thoughtful. I can almost see the gears in his head turning. He knows he can''t say it''s fine, but he doesn''t know what I want to hear.


    ''...no?''


    I''m so tired of this.


    ''Can you drive me to my lawyer''s? I need to give her this.''


    ''Sure.''


    <hr>


    ''I don''t think you should take this job.''


    As expected. The executioner is far more level-headed than anyone else around me.


    ''Why would he offer this to me?''


    ''Probably because he''s hoping you will accept a job over a straight cash settlement. The problem is that it puts you at his mercy.''


    A simple settlement would be significantly easier for me. I''d have far less contact with him.


    ''But, you said there was nothing in this contract that clearly stated this was offered in lieu of a settlement.''


    ''That''s accurate.''


    He may be hoping that I''ll drop the previous case in exchange for this, but it seems like he wants me to do this badly enough that he''s gone out of his way to ensure that this is treated as something entirely separate.


    ''What about all this stuff about him leaving me alone for the rest of my life?''


    I point to a table listing types of contact that may occur - it''s so thorough it includes everything all the way down to different types of eye contact we might make at a public event. Each item on the list is accompanied by a cash penalty to be paid by Charles. It specifically states that these penalties don''t apply to contact initiated by me.


    ''That is perplexing.''


    We both stare at the contract.


    He wasn''t wrong about the job being extremely tempting.


    ''Wouldn''t I be able to document the sets I build, so he can''t claim they''re not up to standard after the fact?''


    ''You could - but would you ever be able to get him on camera saying he approves of them?''


    It''s a good question.


    ''The pay is so good though.''


    ''It is. Unreasonably good.''


    It dwarfs even what Jaq is paying me to be his fake girlfriend.


    ''He''s already publicly announced that I''ve been hired for it. Won''t it look bad for me if I refuse now?''


    ''That''s his problem. If you refuse, he can''t legally say anything that would hurt you. I''ll be at his throat with a defamation suit before the words leave his lips.''


    ''Could we add a clause about what constitutes satisfactory work? Maybe something involving a third party?''


    She narrows her eyes.


    ''You''re joking.''


    I shake my head. She purses her lips, then says;


    ''If you''re seriously considering this job offer... We could. He would have to agree to the change.''


    ''What about... a condition that makes him explain exactly why he''s doing this and what he hopes to gain before I sign?''


    ''We could try, though I imagine he''d prefer to do that verbally. I can''t imagine his intentions will look good on paper.''

 21. Being Reasonable

    Thursday


    I arrange a set of seven polymer clay bears atop the en suite bathroom mirror, from smallest to largest, spacing them out carefully.


    They''re not very thematic bathroom d¨¦cor. I don''t have any suitable fish sculptures though. I had a pretty cute mermaid once, but she was one of the casualties of the break-in.


    I open the cabinet door to test whether the bears are safe where they are, or if they''ll be dislodged by the movement. They seem stable enough.


    I didn''t want to be here, and yet here I am; wasting time, swanning about in the spacious guest room.


    Technically, I''m ''unpacking,'' but I don''t want to unpack my belongings here. It feels like admitting defeat. My clothes are in the closet, so I''m unpacked enough. Now, I''m listlessly looking for the best places to display my remaining art.


    I don''t want to wake up confused about whether I''m here or in Jaq''s room ever again. I need my mark on this space to be obvious.


    I hold up a weird doll I made from sticks and scraps of fabric when I was a child. I vaguely remember planning to embroider its name on its apron. I don''t know where the apron is anymore, nor do I recall its name, so I''m not entirely happy about putting it on display. It feels like half the thing''s story is missing.


    It''s gloriously creepy though.


    I sit it on the shelf over the bed, with its feet dangling down.


    I hope it will discourage visitors.


    Living in a spare room at my boyfriend''s parent''s house feels like a new low. I know that I shouldn''t be worried about wearing out my welcome. I''m supposed to be marrying Jaq. Still. I bring nothing of value to this place. Even in my worst days of homelessness, when I found myself between good places to squat; If I had the good fortune to have a friend''s couch to crash on, I''d thank them by doing chores for them.


    What use am I here?


    I suppose I could try my hand at baking, or something equally inane. Then, I could bring Frances a plate of biscuits every time she summoned us to a meal. She''d probably pretend to be happy about the first batch, but I suspect it wouldn''t be long before she got sick of them. She might even stop asking me to come to dinners. That wouldn''t be so bad.


    How am I this spiteful?


    I''ve never been a very good baker. She might foolishly eat one biscuit and then come to the very reasonable conclusion that I''m attempting to murder her.


    Better if I don''t.


    I flip open a hardcover sketchbook, looking for an okay drawing with the right orientation so I can stand it up on top of the nightstand. Landscape would be best, but it seems like the entire book is taken up with bad portraits of dogs. I sigh and drop the book back into the box. Most of the books in there are softcover, so they won''t stand up on their own.


    I''ve done nothing today, and I''m already exhausted.


    Through the open window, I hear the soft sound of a distant but approaching siren.


    Weird. The house is so far back from the road I can''t normally hear any traffic.


    I guess sirens are pretty loud.


    With great effort, I kick the box of sketchbooks under the bed. I''d rather not stack them on a shelf.


    The siren gets louder.


    It sounds like it''s in the driveway.


    I lean out the window to see if I can see the source - an ambulance. The siren shuts off as paramedics charge up to the front door with a gurney.


    Something must have happened to Frances.


    I dodge around the scattered stacks of boxes and make my way out into the hall. I walk quickly, with purpose, but I have no idea where I should go - or if I should really be out here where I could be in someone''s way.


    I don''t know where Frances'' room is, or where she spends her time when she''s home.


    I make my way to the front door.


    Jaq and Lionel stand about, fretting, while Isaac follows after the paramedics carrying Frances back out to the ambulance. He staggers drunkenly.


    ''Someone should drive him to the hospital - he''ll be in the way if he gets in the ambulance with her.''


    Lionel nods, looking relieved he has something to do. He chases after the group, calling to his father.


    Jaq''s vacant expression shows an echo of confusion.


    ''Should we drive there too?''


    I think for a moment.


    ''We should go to her room and pack a bag with some things so she can stay in the hospital overnight. Then we can follow.''


    Jaq nods and starts to climb the grand staircase.


    Of course, the master bedroom had to be up there. It''s so perfectly clich¨¦.


    I follow at a distance, wondering if we should pack some spare clothes for Isaac too.


    He''ll probably come back home once he knows what''s going on. It''s probably fine.


    <hr>


    I stand in the waiting room, beside a particularly ugly artificial fern. I felt like a third wheel in Frances'' hospital room. The men crowd around their matriarch like a protective wall, completely oblivious to the fact that they have become a troublesome obstacle for the nurses.


    I''m an outsider. An interloper. I don''t belong there.


    I''m not entirely sure what''s going on, but it sounds like it was a seizure caused by the cancerous growth affecting the pressure inside her skull. I guess it must be brain cancer, then... though it could equally be in her sinuses, ears or neck.


    I''m not sure how long she''ll be in the dreary little hospital room. I hope it won''t be long.


    I wonder if she likes flowers. The hospital must have a gift shop somewhere - the big ones always do. I should be able to get her something bright and pretty.


    I''m sure some coffee wouldn''t go amiss for her well-wishers, either.


    I trudge down the fluorescently lit corridor, looking for the lift. This place, like all hospitals, is a maze. I''m not sure I''ll be able to find my way back on my own. I try to pick out landmarks I can navigate by.


    The gift shop is about what you''d expect. Shelves overflowing with pink and blue stuffed animals for the new babies. The stand displaying flowers is almost overshadowed by a flotilla of balloons professing sympathies, congratulations, and cute jokes about lost tonsils and broken limbs.


    It''s probably better if I select something self-contained. The flowers''ll be easier to manage if they don''t need a vase.


    I have plenty to choose from. Gerberas, irises, carnations, chrysanthemums - the ever-popular and so generic rose. I''m surprised there aren''t any tulips. Finally, my eyes come to rest on a bouquet of sunflowers. They''ve got their own briquette of soggy florist''s foam well hidden inside a decorative box. They''ll do nicely.


    I don''t bother to check the price.


    With the flowers in one arm, I stop at the hospital''s cafe. It''s well situated so most of the seats face toward the gift shop, providing patrons with the chance to impulse buy last minute gifts while they rest and eat microwaved quiche.


    Stolen story; please report.


    I don''t know how Jaq or Isaac like their coffee. I should have asked. I order Lionel''s coffee with milk and sugar, then four others; half with milk, half without, and a handful of little packets of sugar. We''ll have a spare, but I''m sure a nurse won''t mind taking one.


    Unless Frances wakes up.


    She probably won''t want to drink bad hospital coffee first thing after she regains consciousness. It smells burnt.


    I carry my load very slowly to the lift.


    I''m pretty sure they were on the third floor.


    <hr>


    The hospital lights maintain a perfect level of daylight-bright - the only way I know the sun has set is by the clock on my phone. I return to the sick room and tap Jaq and Lionel on their shoulders.


    ''We should probably go home soon.''


    It looks like Isaac intends to spend the night beside his ailing wife. I wish I''d brought him some clothes.


    Lionel leaves his keys with Isaac so he can drive home later if he changes his mind about sleeping in his own bed. He barely seems to register that he''s been given the keys at all. If I didn''t know he''d been without any alcohol since he arrived that morning, I''d have assumed he was in a drunken stupor.


    Poor guy.


    We return to the hospital car park. I avoid looking at the exorbitant fee demanded by the exit gate when the parking ticket is inserted. It seems especially cruel for the hospital to profiteer off visitors like this.


    Jaq breaks the silence;


    ''I''m sorry I didn''t believe you when you told me she was sick.''


    I shrug.


    She seemed immortal to me. I barely believed it. I certainly didn''t think she''d be in a hospital this soon.


    Lionel looks pertubed.


    ''You knew?''


    I nod.


    ''Isaac let slip after lunch on Tuesday.''


    ''Why didn''t you tell me?''


    I didn''t even think to tell him.


    ''I didn''t realise it was this urgent.''


    Isaac said ''stage four,'' and that sounded bad - but I genuinely have no idea what a classification like that means. ''Cancer'' already sounded bad. I think I assumed that if it were really serious, it''d be more obvious.


    ''I''m sorry I didn''t tell you right away.''


    Lionel doesn''t respond. It seems like he almost expects to be left out of the loop.


    That makes me feel worse.


    I don''t want to perpetuate the cycle.


    Friday


    I shuffle around the lavish home office, searching for a key. The paperwork Isaac asked for was supposed to be in the desk drawer, but it wasn''t. I suspect it''s in the locked cabinet behind the desk. I tip out the contents of a decorative pen holder on the shelf and find the key at the bottom. Finally.


    The key clicks in the lock and the cabinet swings silently open. There are stacks of documents in here. I take a pile of them out to flip through them on the desk. A very recent bill for yacht registration, a half-completed application for entry into a dog race, all sorts of things that Frances must have been planning to handle in the coming weeks. I do my best not to get them out of order.


    ''Aha!''


    I split the pile so it''s easier to extract the document marked ''Medical Directives''.


    Underneath it is a much thicker document marked ''Last Will and Testament - Revised Copy.''


    I desperately want to drop what I''m doing and read it.


    Reluctantly, I return it to the cabinet with the other unwanted documents. I''ll have the chance to come back and snoop later.


    I rush back to the master bedroom where Jaq is still looking for Frances'' sleeping mask.


    ''Did you check under the pillow?''


    He lifts the pillow up and grabs the oddly utilitarian thing. I thought it''d be pink and lacy. It''s just grey.


    I put the document into the bag.


    ''Is that everything, then?''


    He nods.


    ''Everything Father asked for.''


    I pick up the bag while Jaq tries his best to return the contents of the bedside drawers to their rightful place. It''s a futile effort.


    ''Come on, we can fix that later.''


    He nods.


    We walk to the car. Lionel isn''t joining us today. Lucky bastard.


    The drive to the hospital is quiet. I''m normally a chatterbox, but I really can''t think of anything to say. How exactly does one console the adult child of a dying woman?


    It might be easier if he looked sad.


    I wonder if he''s ever experienced the death of someone he was this close to before. A grandparent, perhaps? Maybe an uncle?


    I don''t even know if he has aunts and uncles.


    Not on Frances'' side, at least. She was an only child.


    <hr>


    I stand by the door with Isaac. We''ve both been banished from Frances'' hospital room. She wanted to talk to Jaq alone.


    ''How are you holding up?''


    He says nothing, but feigns a smile. It¡¯s more than enough to convey his exhaustion. I can guess at his deeper emotional state - I know I¡¯d be struggling. I wish I knew how to comfort him. The best I can come up with is;


    ¡®At least she¡¯s conscious now.¡¯


    He doesn¡¯t look up as he says;


    ¡®There is that.¡¯


    The door opens beside me, and Jaq touches my arm.


    ¡¯She wants to talk to you.¡¯


    ¡®Me? Why?¡¯


    He shrugs.


    I enter the room and walk to the bedside. Frances is propped up with a stack of pillows. She looks like a discarded chocolate bar wrapper; thinner, more wrinkled. Oddly flat. She looked so healthy a mere two days ago, tormenting her husband with Charles. This change is too extreme.


    ¡®How are you?¡¯


    She waves a hand dismissively.


    ¡¯I¡¯ve been better.¡¯


    ¡¯Do you know when they will let you go home?¡¯


    ''I may not be going home. I¡¯ve spoken to Jacques... I want to live to see him married.'' She pauses, letting the implication of the statement fill the gap. ''I¡¯m sure you would prefer to take your time; he said something about you wanting to be married in the spring... but I don''t think I have that long.''


    The look in her eyes is unsettling - a kind of pleading desperation that I never imagined I¡¯d see there. It hurts to meet her gaze.


    I''m glad Jaq''s lie was at least believable - a lot of people want to marry in spring - but now I''m reluctant to say anything more without quizzing him about what he said.


    ''I understand. You''re his mother, of course it¡¯s important to you.''


    I wish I''d planned for wedding discussions - I was so busy inventing our fake past that I forgot I needed to consider our fake future. It didn''t even occur to me that it might come up. It should have - he literally called me his fianc¨¦e.


    ''You''re right, I did want to move a little slower. I¡¯ve never arranged a wedding before. I had some ideas about things I''d like, but I haven''t looked into any of the logistics.'' I sigh. ''Do you have any idea how long you have? Would I be able to make arrangements for you to attend in a wheelchair, or are you already too sick for that?''


    As a child, I imagined my groom would be dressed like a knight in full plate armour, and I¡¯d ride in on a unicorn, dressed in a tutu, with a fairy godmother to walk me down the aisle.


    As a young teen, I wanted to be the one in the armour - but it was brightly coloured plastic and spandex sentai armour rather than steel plate. My partner could wear whatever they wanted.


    I joked with Casey once about having an Elvis-themed wedding where everyone but the celebrant was dressed as Elvis.


    I grew more disillusioned with the idea of marriage over time.


    At best, It¡¯s an excuse for a party. At worst, it''s a huge waste of time and money, and the source of a ton of unnecessary stress. Some even result in the destruction of the relationship the wedding was intended to cement.


    It doesn¡¯t mean much at all in the present day; there are barely any tangible benefits. Even when you have kids; de-facto partners get basically the same rights as married couples under the law. You don''t need a government-issued document for that.


    I¡¯m really not opposed to the concept of marriage. Other people have their own opinions, their own reasons, and are welcome to do it. I just don¡¯t see the point in putting myself through that.


    If my partner really wanted it, I¡¯d be fine with getting married; provided the person I was marrying was someone I really loved.


    I don''t love Jaq.


    I barely like Jaq.


    Now that I''m forced to consider a wedding seriously as a part of Jaq''s scheme to defraud his parents... it''s going to be a painful chore. There''s no chance of me being able to walk down the aisle wearing a stupid costume. If I torment Frances with ugly colour schemes and guests dressed in the weirdest outfits the theatre''s costume storage room is able to provide... that would make me even more of a monster.


    A boring, generic, white wedding is the only legitimate option.


    Even though I won''t actually be marrying Jaq, this is probably the only time I will ever ''be'' a bride. It feels like such a waste to run down to Rita''s charity store and grab whichever discarded wedding dress mostly fits me, order whatever white flowers are available at the local florist, and pay a celebrant to meet us in the hospital.


    It won¡¯t even need to be a real celebrant. Enough of my friends are actors.


    It might be hard to explain why we need a fake, but I imagine I''ll be able to persuade someone.


    I''d barely even need to lie.


    I could say Frances wants to see her boy wed before she dies. This will be a rushed display wedding just for her and his immediate family, to give her peace of mind. If I want a real wedding with my friends and family in attendance, it will take too long to arrange, and she might die in the meantime... and I don¡¯t know how many venues suitable for a real wedding (that are also available for an immediate booking) will be able to make accommodations for a hospital bed.


    None of that is untrue.


    I mean, apart from the part where the whole ceremony is a lie. I''m being honest that this is a show I''m putting on for a dying woman, though.


    ''The doctors won''t give me an estimate on my life expectancy.'' she says.


    I nod.


    ''The sooner, the better, then?''


    She seems to sink deeper into her bed with relief.


    ''You should hire a wedding planner, it¡¯s their job to know all the details, so they will be able to organise something quickly.''


    There can¡¯t be a wedding planner. They would insist on a real celebrant.


    Or would they? Couldn¡¯t we just say we will go to the registry office and do the official bit later?


    ''I will look into it, it sounds like a good idea.''


    She smiles;


    ''You can use my accounts to pay for the whole thing.''


    That poses a new problem and presents me with a whole new layer of hell to dwell in. If I did that, she would see all the receipts and charges. If she doesn''t know how much it cost, she probably won''t bat an eye at a $25 wedding dress, but if she does... she might see it as a sign that I''m not invested in the marriage.


    ''That¡¯s too generous - I''d feel like I¡¯m just mooching off you if I let you do that. Please let me look into it first, and if there''s anything I need help with, I''ll bring it to you.''


    ''You¡¯re selling yourself short. You provide a lot to the family by supporting Jacques... and I would feel more comfortable knowing you have all the resources you need.''


    She reaches into her purse on the bedside table and passes me a credit card.


    ''Please take it.''


    I never knew how much guilt could hurt, physically. I¡¯ve felt fear and anxiety so severe that it altered my perception of gravity. Never guilt. It¡¯s like my heart is a tangle of barbed wire, shredding my insides with every beat.


    I hold her hand gently in both of my own.


    ''Alright. I will accept, but I insist I pay for some things on my own.''


    She releases the card and withdraws.


    I will have to find ways to fake some of the more inconvenient bills. Maybe even hire a real celebrant. The signed marriage certificate doesn¡¯t have to survive the trip to the office of births deaths and marriages. We could secretly destroy it; tell her we paid the registration fee at the office out of our own pocket. We could even frame it as being a small concession to my own vanity.


    She would buy that, right?


    This is so wrong.


    I hate that my entire life now revolves around this deception. I don''t want any of this. I''d rather hurl myself out the window than marry Jaq, but I can¡¯t defend myself from these very reasonable requests without revealing the ruse. I feel like flotsam adrift on the sea, tossed by currents and waves I have no control over. I want to swim, but I¡¯m just garbage, not even a person. I can¡¯t swim.


    I made a stupid choice when I didn¡¯t fully understand the consequences.


    Could I play at being a bridezilla? Could I be ridiculously difficult and draw it out forever?


    Could I live with myself if I did that to Frances?


    I¡¯m toying with the last moments of a human being. I¡¯m already doing her a disservice by not being the doting girlfriend she thinks I am. I don¡¯t think I could disrespect her even more by being that unique brand of awful.


    ''Did you want me to send anyone else back in?'' I ask, but she''s already fallen asleep


    It feels like a slap to the face.


    She''s so defenceless, lying there. The echoes of the demon I imagined her to be fade from my mind.


    I step out of the room and Isaac returns to the bedside unbidden.


    He refuses to leave her.


    I¡¯d call it romantic, but how can I make such a judgement? he says he cheated on her. He¡¯s willing to sit through her flirting with younger men because of his guilt. I don¡¯t know what this is. Loyalty?


    Whatever it might be, it makes me nauseous.

 22. Primogeniture

    Friday Afternoon


    Alone in my room, I reread the will in a cold sweat.


    I stole it as soon as we got home - I shouldn''t have. It''s none of my business. I''m not the rightful beneficiary, or I didn''t think I could be. Now I''m terrified.


    The language is the kind of frustrating legalese only lawyers understand, but I think I get the gist of it.


    There were more buried secrets than I ever guessed.


    I thought Frances was being a little pushy insisting I marry Jaq before she dies. I thought it was just because she wants closure.


    It''s not.


    It''s because Jaq isn''t guaranteed to inherit anything. He really doesn''t have a chance at getting any of it unless he''s married.


    When she dies, everything goes into a trust to be managed on his behalf at the complete discretion of a third party.


    The third party depends on Jaq''s marital status.


    If he''s married, the trust manager becomes Jaq''s wife. She thinks that''ll be me, and that I''ll manage everything and provide a comfortable life for him because I love him.


    If he¡¯s unmarried, and he was going to be legally unmarried, the third party would be Charles.


    It says, very clearly, that the third party can use the money however he or she likes provided that Jaq is taken care of to a specified standard. The language there is too obtuse to follow properly, but it doesn''t sound very good.


    What kind of idiotic stipulation is that?


    She doesn''t trust him with her money at all. She''d rather give it to a snake, like Charles, than leave it to her own son.


    Even making the fund manager Jaq''s wife is extremely dangerous. I could have been a scam artist, trying to fleece him. With such complete freedom to do as I want with the money, I''m sure there would be infinite ways to legally siphon it all out into my personal accounts without him noticing. He wouldn''t care enough to check, so he''d be broke and in the streets long before he knew what I''d done.


    Charles must know what''s in the will, and that must be why he wants me to stay with Jaq.


    He''s been after the money this whole time.


    Why? He''s so rich already. I''ve seen his house and his car. With the way he throws his weight around, hiring thugs to break into houses and lawyers to bully educators, he must be even richer than Frances.


    Is that why she thinks she can trust him? Because he has so much already?


    The will doesn''t contain any solid figures; it references categories of property and percentages of ownership, everything is generalised, nothing is specific.


    Even without solid figures, I know I couldn''t hope to spend all of this in my lifetime - it''s far too much for one person to own, but she does.


    She wants it all to be used for the benefit of her son.


    She could have left Isaac in charge of it - even if she doesn''t trust him, he has to be a better option than Charles. He has a vested interest in Jaq - Jaq''s his son! Charles is just a ''friend''. Not even a good friend.


    Perhaps she thinks Isaac¡¯d take offence to being put in charge of money he isn¡¯t permitted to keep.


    The will says something approximating; ''Isaac has his own money and shouldn''t need any of the estate''.


    Reading deeper; nothing goes to Lionel at all. An entire page is dedicated to explaining why he¡¯s not legally entitled to anything. The page boils down to a very simple and singular reason;


    Lionel isn''t her son.


    He''s Isaac''s, but not hers.


    She never adopted him legally, so she''s just a sort of unwilling step-parent. He has no claim.


    I don''t know what to do with this information. I''m not supposed to know it.


    Does Lionel know he''s a bastard? Is that why he''s so content to do nothing?


    I can''t believe that being a ''bastard'' is something relevant today. We''ve long passed the age of noble bloodlines, primogeniture and succession.


    I hug the document to my chest. Everything about this is cruel.


    These people have been hurt, badly, but rather than working through their problems or taking time to heal, they turn the hurt into weapons that they point outward to keep hurting each other.


    They¡¯re like some kind of horrible species of emotional echidna, crashing into each other as they desperately look for comfort, only to stab themselves on one another''s spines.


    I want to take the will to my lawyer and ask her what it means.


    Surely I¡¯m mistaken.


    I have to be.


    I don¡¯t know anything about trusts. Maybe it¡¯s harder to steal from them than I think¡­ but if it were impossible, Charles wouldn¡¯t be so enthusiastic about keeping Jaq single.


    I can¡¯t let him win.


    No matter what, I can¡¯t let him win.


    Even if it means actually marrying Jaq.


    I feel the floor drop out from under me.


    I think I have to do it.


    I''d rather marry a cockroach.


    He''s not a capable human. He¡¯s about as far as you can get from competent.


    I''m stuck. I can''t not do it. I helped him dig himself into this. I can''t abandon him to it.


    I hide the will under my blanket so I don''t have to look at it anymore.


    I have to help him.


    He has to be married.


    He has to have someone to manage his stupid trust.


    It doesn''t have to be me...


    But there''s no way to know if the random person he marries is trustworthy enough to manage his trust.


    Fuck.


    I don''t want to face it, but I can''t turn away.


    It''s too late.


    I want to climb into the wardrobe with the clothes and shut myself in with the blessed darkness.


    If I found the entrance to Narnia while I was there, even better.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    There''s no escape. There''s no way to hide.


    A fox caught in a trap will chew off its own foot to escape.


    There''s nothing here I can chew off to get out.


    Maybe my conscience.


    I don''t think that''s the sort of thing you can just throw away.


    I have to do it.


    Hands shaking, I locate my phone.


    Almost as a declaration of intent, I text my sister;


    <blockquote>


    Hey, just letting you know that I''m probably getting married soon.


    </blockquote>


    The message looks ridiculous.


    We haven''t spoken in years. This is the first thing I send?


    I must be having a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. This isn''t real.


    <hr>


    I wake up on top of my covers, a gentle knocking at the door.


    ''Jo? Joanne?''


    ''Yes?''


    Jaq''s voice sounds uncertain.


    ''Are you coming to dinner?''


    I quickly run my fingers through my hair as I stand and walk to the door. I don''t recall if there was a family dinner arranged for tonight.


    ''Sure. Do I need to change or is this fine?''


    Jaq regards me in confusion. There''s a sort of half-shrug. I take it as assent and step out into the hall.


    I just woke up, but my brain is buzzing with questions and concerns about the will. I feel like I didn''t sleep at all. I probably didn''t even get half an hour, so perhaps there''s a reason for that.


    What I really feel like is a burlap sack full of gnawing rats. I can''t ask these questions; I''m not supposed to know any of this. I don''t want to even think about the implications of what I''ve read. How will the knowledge of Lionel''s illegitimacy change their relationship? His understanding of himself and his identity? His place in this house? His relationship with Frances? Their relationship with Isaac?


    I can''t let any of it out. Not until I have a plan of attack. I''ve been operating on incomplete information for too long - now, if I''m careful, I might be able to put these lives back in order... but every moment of temptation to blurt something out puts it all into jeopardy. If I say the wrong thing now...


    Those little rodents are gnawing at my already frayed seams.


    Jaq can''t know just how precarious his position is; he can''t be told how much power Charles has over him. He wouldn''t believe it. He can''t be trusted not to say something stupid. He''d let the whole plan go to ruin because he doesn''t want to think about the consequences of his actions.


    Lionel can''t know because he''s already shown himself to be a little too hot-headed. I can''t allow him to confront any of these people. It would be too easy for this situation to turn his current resentment into the kind of explosive, indignant rage he couldn''t keep bottled up any more.


    I can''t let anything slip that might get back to Charles, and tip him off to the fact I know about his plan.


    I need to take him by surprise if I''m hoping to take him for all he''s worth.


    I''m not just doing this to protect poor, naive Jaq, who would otherwise lose his family fortune to a traitorous ''friend''. I''m doing it for revenge. For spite. This vile man thought he could use me as a tool in his plot. I won''t allow it. I won''t kneel before a tyrant. I absolutely will not serve him.


    I don''t want to go eat dinner with these pawns. I have a king to topple.


    I need my Executioner.


    She''ll know if any of the rubbish in the will is even enforceable. Perhaps I''m getting worked up over nothing. Perhaps the will can''t stand up to legal scrutiny...


    But it''s Frances'' will. She has the money for a legal team worth more than its weight in mere gold.


    If only I''d studied law.


    We reach the dining room. It''s just the three of us. Isaac must still be at the hospital.


    I sit, trying not to let my impatience and irritation rise too close to the surface. The staff members who serve us dinner seem just as professional as ever. I''m eternally wary of their gaze. Any one of them could be a double agent for Charles - making sure nothing goes awry with his stupid plot. I don''t know what they know. I don''t know what they hear; what they say; what they do when I''m not watching.


    I can''t leave the will hidden in my blankets. I need to take it to the Executioner first thing in the morning.


    Tomorrow is the weekend.


    Damn it.


    I wait until there''s nobody in the dining room with us and quietly say;


    ''I think we''re going to have to plan a fake wedding.''


    Lionel nods. Jaq looks conflicted.


    ''Frances wants it to happen soon. I don''t know how comfortable you are lying this much. I can try to draw out the planning process as long as possible, and hope she''s passed before it happens.''


    Neither of them speak. Lionel looks at peace - I think he doesn''t particularly care either way. Jaq''s procession of expressions is too hard to interpret.


    ''I could also organise a very small, simple ceremony in the hospital room as soon as possible - something to give her a little closure. Then she''ll stop being so worried. She might nag you a little less.''


    Jaq nods.


    ''As soon as possible sounds good to me.''


    ''I''ll get to work on it tomorrow morning.''


    Saturday


    I pace silently in the Executioner''s waiting room while the woman at the desk copies the will. The Executioner isn''t here, of course. I let her know I was dropping it off. I''ve left her a list of questions along with the will - things like ''Can the will be disputed? If Frances dies before the wedding, will Pitch be able to steal everything from Jaq before the will is disputed? Would Pitch be able to dispute my control over Jaq''s trust? Can Lionel or Isaac demand part of the deceased estate despite being explicitly written out as beneficiaries? Could Pitch demand part of it? If any of them try, would it be better to simply hand them part of it? What would be fair?''


    I tried to frame the questions as though I were genuinely Jaq''s fianc¨¨e - I pray she doesn''t notice how many of the questions are related to Jaq''s legal marital status. It makes me look suspicious.


    I can''t help it. I am suspicious.


    Once the copy is complete, I race over to the accountant''s office. I have a list with most of the same questions for her. She''ll likely have mostly the same answers as well - but I suspect she''ll have a different perspective that may be helpful for me. The copier at the accountant''s office is faster. I''m back out in the fresh air much quicker than I expected.


    I''d take the original copy of the will straight back to stash it in among the paperwork in the locked cabinet - but I have to make better use of my time. Instead, I''m meeting Casey and Sal. I need them for my plan. I have to bring them up to speed.


    I spot them lurking outside the overpriced caf¨¨ I invited them to. They look far less uncomfortable than I felt waiting outside the Beanbow those few weeks ago. I suppose they know me - they''d be pretty sure I''m not about to murder them.


    I grin and greet them both, bringing them in for a hug.


    ''Turns out that I''ll be getting married a lot sooner than I expected. Jaq''s mother is dying but she wants to be able to attend the wedding. I can''t really deny her dying wish.''


    They both look shocked.


    ''Casey - obviously I want you as my maid of honour. Sal - I need your brother to stand in as the celebrant.''


    He looks confused, but before he can say anything, I continue quietly;


    ''You can''t repeat any of what I''m about to say, okay?''


    I wait for them to nod.


    ''There''s likely to be some interference from someone who has a vested interest in this wedding not occurring.''


    ''What do you mean?''


    ''You recall the break-in? That was this person attempting to gather dirt on me so he could blackmail me and stop the wedding. He''s also tried to kidnap me, and he roofied me. He bribed the staff at the hotel Jaq put me in after the break-in to rifle through my garbage. He''s having me stalked - even now. He''s even started to try to bribe me into abandoning Jaq.''


    They look horrified. Casey already knows some of this, but I suppose it hadn''t quite been framed like this before.


    ''I have a plan, but I need people who won''t betray me for a little bit of money.''


    They both immediately profess their loyalty. I hold up my hands to shush them into silence. I glance around the dim dining room, hoping whoever''s watching me can''t hear us.


    ''Come on - we need to change locations. I''ve got a booking with a florist.''


    We arrive at the florist - the place is a riot of smells and colours. I explain that I''d like a classy and traditional sort of wedding - white and soft pink. I explain the dire restriction of the whole thing being held in a hospital room so my dying mother-in-law can attend. I explain how little time she has left. I probably emphasise it a little too much. I describe the depth of the budget, and wave Frances'' credit card. The florist rushes out to start putting together designs to show me immediately. While she''s gone and we''re alone in the showroom, I pull my friends closer and continue to describe my plans.


    ''The reason this vested interest wants me gone is because of my dying mother-in-law''s will. She''s putting everything into a trust for Jaq that will be managed either by Jaq''s lawful wife, or if he has no wife, by that vested interest. She knows Jaq is terrible with money and has no idea how to take care of himself. She trusts this guy because she thinks he''s Jaq''s devoted friend, but he''s a monster and he just wants to steal her fortune. Nobody but he and Frances are supposed to know about this. I only found out by accident.''


    ''That''s insane.'' Sal says, aghast.


    ''So, I''ve accepted the bribe to have me abandon Jaq.''


    Casey gasps.


    ''No - hear me out. I''ve accepted it because it means he''ll leave me alone. No more intimidation. He thinks I''m his stooge. The wedding will be 100% real - but he needs to believe it''s a fake. He needs to believe it''s fake until it''s too late for him to do anything about it. I want your brother as the celebrant because I want there to secretly be two legitimate copies of the certificate. One of you will take a copy and file it with the office of births deaths and marriages - but the other copy needs to be destroyed somewhere that the vested interest''s goons can see. He might even want to destroy it himself. I don''t know yet. But, I need him to think we''re playing along. I need him to believe I don''t know about the fortune he''s about to steal. I can''t let him rob Jaq blind. Jaq still thinks they''re friends!''


    Sal''s expression is steely.


    ''He''ll come after you when he realises what you''ve done.''


    I nod.


    ''He''ll probably come after both of you as well. And the rest of my friends and family. That''s another reason I''m accepting the bribe. I want to be closer to him so I can gather solid evidence of what he''s doing. I want to be able to completely destroy him if he tries anything. I want to be the one holding all the cards. The money he''s giving me isn''t anything to sneeze at either. It''ll be enough to buy a nice, big house for the gang to live in.''


    They look incredulous.


    ''I''d probably have enough left to bankroll the Euripedes Theatre as well.''


    The weight of their disbelief could sink a cargo ship.


    I hold up my phone and show them a photograph of the page of the job contract detailing my wages. Casey takes it and squints, reading it.


    ''He''s bribing you with a job?''


    I nod.


    ''Yet another reason I need you two in on it. I need assistants to build these sets. He wants theatrical stages for the entirety of Camelot.''


    The florist reappears with an A3 printout of an elaborate wall of flowers - she hands it to me with a flourish.


    ''Nobody would guess it''s a hospital room with a display like this behind you.''


    She''s right. It''s perfect.

 23. Conversation with a Hyena

    Sunday


    I sit in the dappled shade of a tree on the estate, sketchbook on my knee. The tree''s trunk shields me from the glowering windows of the house. It''s been a long time since I last spent a day sketching. I''m fortunate. I already had plans for a castle drawbridge I could adapt for this project, and I''ve no shortage of old sketches of odd medieval-looking houses. The things I need to design completely from scratch won''t be boring, though. Arthur''s throne will need to be absolutely spectacular. As will Excalibur.


    I considered basing Excalibur off Galgano Guidotti''s sword - the real sword in the stone - but if memory serves me it had a rather simple design. I doubt it would pass muster for a Charles Pitch music video.


    I''m honestly tempted to base it on a lightsaber. I could have the whole set lit up with laser lights and sparkly things.


    The design brief is really quite sparse and vague, so I could do virtually anything with it and it''d still technically be within the confines of the brief.


    I spent an hour this morning looking at his previous music videos to see what sort of standard he''s likely to expect - I''m honestly unimpressed by all the previous sets. The costume design was great in some of them - the ones where he wasn''t just in street clothes - and the choreography was pretty on point in all of them. The sets, though. They were often bare. A pretty man in a silly outfit dancing in a blank white space, or a boring open field, or a generic beach somewhere.


    These make me think he probably wants a cookie-cutter castle backdrop and a bland village. He probably wouldn''t particularly care if I handed him a cheap replica sword I got from one of those super scammy knockoff weaponry websites, so long as it was nice and flashy, looked mostly like a sword and didn''t immediately break.


    If I really wanted, I might actually be able to scrape together the whole thing from old sets and props in the storage room at the Euripides.


    That''s what I''d have done if this were a play they were putting on.


    He''s given me the budget to push the limits of my wildest set-building fantasies, though. I can buy all the lumber and paint I like - I could buy all the tools I need brand new. I could hire someone to wire up lights professionally, rather than cobbling it all together myself in a desperate attempt to save money. The only real constraint I have is time - and with the budget here, that''s not much of a constraint at all. I can hire people to do all the tedious, time-consuming things like sanding, priming and varnishing.


    I don''t even need to waste time putting out ads or working with a recruiting agency. I already know all the people I''d want to hire.


    So, he''s not going to get something shitty and generic. He''s going to get something utterly wild.


    I finish my sketch of a plywood dragon. There''s really no need for a dragon. I just want to build one because it''d be cool.


    I want to ask his costume designer and choreographer what they''re planning to do. It''d help me nail down the direction I want to take this. It''s Sunday, though. It''d be rude to call outside of business hours.


    I don''t even have a copy of the lyrics to the song, so I can''t work in nods to whatever it is he''s supposed to be singing about. It''s fine. These are rough sketches. When I have more information, I''ll refine them.


    I kind of can''t wait to get my hands on a jig saw again. I''ve been playing a boring rich boy''s fianc¨¦e, with all the fussy dresses and silly heels, for more time than I''d like. I want to be back in a workshop with sawdust in my hair. It''s where I belong. I lean back against the tree, shutting my eyes.


    I can''t wait to be back in a workshop with my friends.


    Carpentry is simple - even when I''m making something with complicated moving parts, the processes to make it all come together are predictable. Set painting follows rules that are pretty easy to understand. You want things that are big and bold enough to be seen from the back row, but detailed enough to convince people seated at the front. There are brush techniques to create the illusion of any texture you''d like. It might take some effort, or a little practice to get it right, but I''ve never had a challenge I couldn''t overcome.


    It''s familiar. Comfortable.


    Nothing like the life I''ve been leading since I met Jaq.


    I can''t believe that my enemy is the one offering me the chance to return to the thing I''m best at.


    My enemy.


    I can''t believe I have an enemy. A nemesis, even. A villain to fight, as though I''m some kind of hero.


    It''s not who I thought it would be. That bothers me a little. It''s messy. It makes it harder to script as a play.


    Despite my misgivings, I feel powerful - I''m a hero with a plan. I''ve got weapons and allies. My princess in the castle''s keep is... a disappointment. Jaq probably won''t ever fully understand what I''m doing for him.


    I don''t think I''m even doing this for him.


    I''m not sure what I''m doing it for.


    Vanity?


    I shake my head. I don''t want to think of myself as that kind of person. Besides, I only just started fantasizing about being a hero.


    My phone rings. I try not to be annoyed at the disturbance.


    Of course. This call was inevitable.


    ''Hello. It''s been a while.''


    ''Hello my sweet little Joanne, it really has! And you''re getting married? How come your father and I haven''t been introduced to the lucky boy yet?''


    She sounds almost smug.


    I inwardly shudder.


    She''s sure she already knows what''s happening.


    I don''t like talking to my family. It''s not that they ever did anything overtly wrong... they''re just very bad at hiding how judgemental they are. They''ve never approved of any of my choices. Who I befriended in school, all the way from creche to high school. The things I was interested in. The types of books I liked to read. The after-school activities I wanted to participate in. The things I liked to eat. Where I chose to go to uni. What I chose to major in. Where I chose to live. Who I lived with. My choice in partners. My fashion sense. My weight. The way I speak. The way I do my hair.


    It was natural that I''d grow apart from them. Even the ugliest weed strives to reach unimpeded sunlight.


    The more I disappointed them, the less I wanted to be near them, and the less I spoke to them. I''d appear if they explicitly invited me to events; things like my sister''s wedding. I wasn''t prepared to shun them openly. I just never wanted to make an effort to spend time with people who treated me like that. I couldn''t even take refuge in a sisterly bond - she''s just like them. She says things like; ''They''re just doing this because they love you.''


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    I always wanted to respond by asking her; ''If someone loves you, really loves you, would they spend every second of every day making you feel ashamed for existing?''


    I never said it.


    I was too ashamed of myself to even suggest it.


    Now that I''ve seen the relationship between Frances and Jaq... well. I still can''t call a relationship like ours ''love''. The way she treats him is far worse than my parents and me, but that doesn''t excuse their behaviour. It''s not okay for children to have to block out all memories of having parents in order to feel safe and comfortable in their own skin. If I''d stayed under their wing, stayed under their constant critical gaze... I''d have withered away. That''s not love.


    ''I had an NDA. I really couldn''t say anything to anyone until he was prepared to make a press release about our wedding.''


    I pause to let it sink in. I almost wish I could see her face as she grapples with what I''ve just said.


    ''An NDA?''


    ''Yes. Every time he''s been seen with a woman it''s all over the tabloids.''


    I think back to the search results I got when I looked up his name at our first meeting. All the photos of him at random events, posed awkwardly with the women his mother picked out for him. He''s a pretty low-tier celebrity, but that doesn''t mean he has any privacy.


    ''Wait, what are you saying?''


    They were so proud of my sister when she got engaged to her nice, high-earning banker boyfriend. She''d chosen well. A good boy who would place her firmly in the middle to upper-middle class, as opposed to their lower-middle class.


    ''I''m surprised you didn''t see us in the paper last week. I kind of expected a call.''


    Twisting the knife feels far too good. I can''t help it. They were always so proud of my perfectly well-behaved sister, who''d never put a toe out of line, and who lacked even an ounce of individuality. I continue;


    ''I suppose you were never much interested in the Culture section of the paper.''


    Take that, you fucking social climbing goat. I continue;


    ''It''s a good thing all those free dance classes at school paid off.''


    I stop myself from reminding her that she absolutely hated those classes.


    I stop myself from reminding her how adamant she was that she wouldn''t pay for any extracurricular dance or music classes, because they were ''worthless''.


    I want to say it. It would make the next blow just that much more impactful.


    I restrain myself. It will hurt enough.


    ''Oh, don''t worry. My fianc¨¦ isn''t a dancer. I know exactly how much you''d hate that.''


    I pause again.


    ''He''s a musician.''


    Monday


    Everything hinges on the wedding.


    It has to happen before Frances dies.


    No exceptions.


    I can''t delay. Not even a little.


    My meeting with the Executioner was both reassuring and worrying, in equal measures.


    If I''m not married before she''s dead, her deceased estate could be frozen while a court battle ensued between Jaq and Charles. The problem is that a lot of the money could still be siphoned out despite that because many of the holdings aren''t the sort that can just be frozen, like a regular bank account. There are too many moving parts that could be tampered with.


    If I''m married, the will can still be readily disputed by an assortment of claimants, but their odds of winning aren''t particularly good.


    Lionel has no claim at all. Stepchildren get nothing.


    If there was no will, Isaac would have the right to claim up to two-thirds of Frances'' estate, but because there is a will that explicitly writes him out, it would have to go through a court, and considering how thorough the will is in explaining why Isaac has been left out, it''s not particularly likely to work out for him.


    Charles, much like Lionel, would have no claim.


    It''s far more likely that the will would be contested by Jaq - the whole managed estate thing puts him in a precarious position.


    I said I''d be more than happy to hand it entirely over to Jaq. Skip the managed trust thing.


    That gave the Executioner pause. I think she expected me to want to keep control of his money.


    The hours I spent with her condensed into a single, extremely reassuring statement;


    ''So long as you''re married before Frances dies, you won''t have any real trouble.''


    I can do that.


    I hold my phone to my ear, waiting for the call to connect.


    I''ve already gone shopping for flowers and dresses. I don''t need to print invitations or sort out a guest list, a band, or a venue. I have all the accoutrements necessary for a hasty hospital-room wedding. Sal''s brother jumped at the opportunity to help us out. To be fair, I did offer him a rather generous paycheque.


    He even helped me fill out the form to shorten the ''Notice of Intended Marriage'' waiting period. Otherwise, we''d have to wait a month from the date of submission. Fortunately, Frances'' impending death is a perfectly valid emergency to allow a marriage to be expedited.


    I could hold the wedding tomorrow.


    If I did that, though, it''d make Charles unduly suspicious. I don''t want him to have reason to start sending more of his toughs.


    The phone continues to ring.


    I need Frances to last until Friday, at least. Longer, if possible. The wedding will be Friday. But, I don''t just want Jaq''s money to be safe. I want the payout for the music video. I deserve to line my pockets with Charles'' money. I''ve gone through enough trouble at his hands, because of his greed. I have every right to treat him the way he treated me.


    If she can survive long enough, he won''t realise I''ve double-crossed him until I''ve been paid. Delicious icing for a cake made with anxiety and terror.


    And then?


    I guess all hell will break loose.


    ''Hello?''


    Isaac''s voice sounds awful.


    ''Hi Isaac, it''s Jo. I just wanted to let you and Frances know that the wedding is set for this Friday. It''ll be in Frances'' hospital room.''


    ''Oh. Right.''


    ''While I have you on the phone, do you need anything? Is there any food you''ve been craving that I can bring you? The hospital cafeteria wasn''t very impressive.''


    ''No, no. Don''t trouble yourself. You''re busy.''


    ''Okay. Well. You have my number. If either of you need anything at all, let me know. I''ll come right away.''


    He hangs up without saying goodbye.


    Poor guy.


    I step into the dressmaker''s shop, weaving around mannequins draped liberally with taffeta and lace.


    ''Ah, Joanne! Just a moment while I get your gown!''


    I don''t even see the woman''s face before she''s gone. I hear rustling fabric and rattling coat hangers.


    ''Here it is!''


    She lays the garment bag across the counter.


    ''Would you like to try it on, one last time? Make sure everything is exactly how you want it?''


    ''Thank you.''


    I take it to the large, mirror-walled dressing room.


    The dress was probably just a bridesmaid''s dress, originally. The op-shop had three of them, all different sizes. It was the only thing ''bridal'' enough that fit me. I''m glad I found it, or I''d be in an off-the-rack dress from some overpriced store that I''m sure Frances would both recognise and hate.


    With the rushed additions and alterations, it looks like it was always a wedding gown. The original pink satin skirt is barely visible through the loose haze of white chiffon and embroidered organza. The white lace appliqu¨¦d to the bodice transforms it from something relatively plain to something a fairytale princess might wear. I''d have loved to have a doll with a dress like this when I was a child.


    There''s a tap at the dressing room door.


    ''If you''re ready, I''ll put your veil on for you.''


    ''Thank you.''


    The woman deftly clips the veil in place. It''s a little heavier than I expected, but it doesn''t matter. It''s excellent.


    My phone rings.


    Took him long enough.


    The woman gestures to the phone and says;


    ''I''ll just be outside.''


    I accept the call, still posing in the mirror, admiring the dress.


    ''I''ve just been informed you''re having a secret wedding on Friday. What happened.''


    Charles sounds angry already.


    I turn to watch the skirt twirl.


    ''It''s not really a secret, and I don''t know why you''re so upset. Frances is dying. She needs to see this for her peace of mind. It doesn''t mean I''m staying.''


    ''You said you wouldn''t marry him.''


    Come on, say it properly.


    ''She wants to see this. It''d be cruel to refuse her dying wish.''


    ''You''re not to marry him.''


    Better.


    Secretly recording calls is illegal, but having the audio to hang over his head is still worth something.


    ''Is that what you''re worried about? It''s just a play. Actors. You know. A little story on a little stage.''


    ''I forbid it!''


    He ''forbids'' it?


    He sounds enraged.


    Softly, I say;


    ''Look, if it makes you feel better, you can shred the certificate yourself.''


    ''A certificate? It''s not fake if there''s a wedding certificate!''


    ''Exactly. You can shred it. I was planning to. She''s not blind! She''s not stupid! She won''t accept it if it''s not at least that realistic. But, she can''t personally take the certificate to file it. It isn''t going to be filed, so it won''t be legally binding.''


    I think I hear him trying to calm his breathing.


    ''You''ll give me the certificate.''


    ''Sure. Or I''ll burn it in front of you. Whatever floats your boat. I told you. You don''t have to worry. I won''t get between you two.''


    He stifles a laugh. He must think it''s funny that I thought he was in love with Jaq.


    ''Fine. I''ll send someone to collect it.''


    ''Cool, just let me know what they''ll be wearing on the day so I can identify them.''


    There will be so many cameras set up for this. It doesn''t matter where he wants to collect the certificate from. I''ll have film from every angle of his guy intimidating me into handing over my marriage certificate.


    ''I didn''t think you had it in you.''


    He can''t suppress the laughter any more; it tumbles out through the phone line.


    ''What?''


    ''You''re a stone-cold psycho. Lying to that idiot''s dying Mum.''


    I purse my lips. It''s my turn to suppress my emotions.


    ''I''ll do anything to protect real love.''


    The roar of laughter is deafening.


    ''I''m going to keep you after this is over. You''re too good to let go.''


    ''Why do you think I''d want to stick around?''


    ''I pay well. Better than he ever could. And, I can make you famous.''


    ''We''ll see.''


    I hang up.


    I can''t breathe.


    I need to get out of this dress.

 24. A Wedding Between a Cat and a Pigeon.

    Tuesday


    Charles'' lyrics are trite. Platitudes about love and honour. I can''t think of a single way to make the set say something interesting about the topic, even with a theme as rich as the Camelot musical to draw on. I don''t understand how this guy became so popular.


    I hate him.


    Even without all the things he''s done. He sucks. This is lazy and boring. If he wrote this himself, he must have mashed potato for brains. If he had a ghostwriter, perhaps they passed the task off to a pigeon who generates lyrics by pecking at a keyboard covered in birdseed.


    I doubt he''s even seen Camelot. That''s not a simple love story. There''s treachery. Pathos. Tension. Suspense.


    I haven''t heard the song actually performed yet, so it''s possible it''s not the worst song I''ve ever heard... but I''ve heard enough of his other music to know the chance that I''ll want to listen to it more than once is minuscule.


    How do I make anything good with this as my ''inspiration''?


    It''s fine. It''ll be fine. I don''t have to make a set that bolsters the song''s message.


    Maybe I can twist it backwards, so the song works for the set.


    If the castle is a ruin, the kingdom a wasteland of broken glass and burned-out houses - bland singing about untroubled love will feel out of place. Like the singer had blinders on, to ignore the world. If I push it, perhaps I can change the entire meaning of the song. I could make it a painful song about willful ignorance in the face of reality. I wonder if the costume designer will work with me on this.


    It''d be better if I could make it a song that exposed Charles for the sham of a man he is.


    He''s a traitor. Like Lancelot. Jaq is more like Arthur. Oblivious to his betrayal. There aren''t many other ways that Jaq is like Arthur. He''s not brave. He''s not strong.


    I grumble to myself. I''m not even Guinevere. She''s Jaq''s inheritance.


    The warehouse I''ve been provided to build the sets in is cavernous. The stage the sets will be for sits, looking lonely and insignificant in a corner. It''s a proper proscenium stage, but without the building around it. The decorative front arch barely hides the complex metal frame from which black curtains and all the usual theatrical rigging dangle. The stage itself is a bare, polished wooden platform. It''s quite high up off the ground; there''s a trap door with a motorised lift at centre-front stage. I tested it. The lift''s motor is smooth and quiet, and peering into the void it left behind, I discovered there is more than enough room to stand underneath. I''m not sure if the stage was built especially for this video, or if it was brought here from somewhere else. I want to know where it''ll be after this is over. I like it. I''d like to visit it when it''s at home.


    Workmen distribute a truckload of materials along the far wall. Large plywood panels, pine planks and beams. Buckets of screws and bolts. Laurie follows them from a safe distance, filming the process. We''re documenting everything. I told them it was for a ''making of'' documentary. I want it for my own security.


    Tomorrow I''ll have most of my theatre troupe family here, marking out the shapes for the building facades. The flats for the trees and castle walls will follow in the coming days. I even have a rideable wooden horse planned.


    So long as I can make up my mind about how things will be painted, I''m certain it''ll all be done within a month. I''ve got plenty of experienced assistants. Everyone''s motivated. They''re excited about how much they''re being paid.


    I drum my fingers against the edge of the stage.


    Everyone''s excited, in general. There is normally a lean period between shows at the Euripedes Theatre. Nobody was expecting this big a windfall in work right now.


    I smile grimly to myself.


    They don''t yet know what this is for. I haven''t told them. I just made them sign NDAs about the work. It''s easier to obey something like that when you don''t know anything worth saying in the first place.


    Charles'' words keep echoing in my mind.


    Am I psycho? It doesn''t feel psycho to do any of this. It feels like the right thing to do.


    I feel like I''m protecting the innocent as best I can with the tools I''ve been given.


    I guess that''s part of being ''psycho''. Not knowing when what you do transgresses normal behaviour, normal morals, or normal logic.


    I feel so tired.


    I was so relieved when I found that last piece of the puzzle and I could finally work on a plan that would solve everything, but now that the plan is underway, all the anxiety and pain have come back in. What if I missed something, or made a mistake? What if something goes wrong?


    I can''t let myself succumb. I''m so close to the end.


    Please, Frances. Stay alive until Friday. For your son. Then stay alive for another month, for me. For us. I''m getting revenge on Charles for you. Let me rob him for you.


    Please.


    I stare up into the exposed steel rafters.


    Stay alive.


    Friday


    Wednesday and Thursday pass in a blur. I''m up at dawn, at the warehouse before anyone else, and the last to leave. Cutting, drilling, shaping. It''s the only way to keep myself from thinking about Friday.


    Now that it is Friday...


    I can''t sit still. The hairdresser is getting impatient with me. I can''t help it. I need my sketchbook. I need a different pen. I need an eraser. I need to refer to that architecture book over there. I''m sure she''d like to strap me to the chair.


    Casey, Sal and his brother will be arriving any minute. They''re bringing a duplicate wedding certificate.


    I''ve told Jaq I want him to practice once before the fake ceremony. I don''t think he suspects this practice certificate will be real. He''s still sullen about my rejection. He''s just behaving himself because he wants to impress me with how mature he can be when he wants to be.


    I want no part of a wedding to him.


    Yet, I sit here still.


    The hairdresser tags in the makeup artist. He''s tall and lean, and he forcibly removes the marker from my hand.


    ''None of that. You''re going to sit still and look straight ahead, or I promise you I''ll make you look like an ogre.''


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ''What if I want to look like an ogre?''


    He clicks his tongue at me.


    I obey.


    I can''t stop thinking. The costume designer showed me a drawing of Arthur''s extremely anachronistic outfit. I asked if they had decided on a colour palette so I could work it into the set. No reply yesterday. No reply today. It''s fine. I''m not really ready to paint. I just want to plan.


    The choreographer sent me a clip of their intended fight scene - he seems to think Excalibur was a fencing foil. I can make the sword lighter, but it''s not going to be easy to swing a regular sword like that, no matter how light it is. I need to send him a test copy of the sword, so he can hold it himself. He needs to feel the heft of it.


    Casey steps into the room, eyes already rimmed with tears.


    ''Oh my god, Jo, you look amazing.''


    The makeup artist glares at me, to keep me from replying. He''s trying to do something with shading on my lips, I think.


    I give Casey a thumbs up, then point to my face with a flourish.


    She laughs.


    ''Okay, missy, you''re done.''


    I jump out of the chair immediately, rushing back to my notebooks to scribble down a thought about lightening the sword without losing structural integrity.


    Casey laughs harder.


    ''Oh, Jo, never change.''


    She hugs me.


    I hug back gently, trying not to damage the fragile fabric of my gown.


    ''I''m sorry, he just wouldn''t let me write while he worked on my face.''


    ''It''s okay! I get it.''


    ''You''re the only one in the world who understands me.''


    ''What about Jaques?''


    I shrug.


    ''Eh.''


    She giggles.


    We walk out to a sitting room, leaving the makeup artist to pack all his strange and colourful potions in peace.


    Sal sits with Lionel and Jaq. His brother, the celebrant, stands by the table. He''s already arranging pens by the certificate. I admire the paper. It''s lovely.


    ''All right. Mr. Glarean, if you''re ready?''


    Jaq approaches the table.


    ''The minimum legal requirements for a marriage ceremony are very simple. I''ll do the bare-bones version for you here.''


    I nod. Jaq nods a moment after I do.


    ''I am a celebrant, legally appointed by the state, with the authority to solemnise marriages. I remind you, in the presence of these witnesses, that marriage, under the law, is a solemn and binding relationship. It is a voluntary, lifelong union between two people, to the exclusion of all others.''


    I nod, and again, Jaq nods a moment after I do.


    ''Mr. Glarean, please repeat after me; I call upon the people present here to witness that I, Jaques Glarean, take Joanne Knight to be my lawful wife.''


    He repeats the vow.


    ''Ms. Knight, please repeat after me; I call upon the people present here to witness that I, Joanne Knight, take Jaques Glarean to be my lawful husband.''


    I repeat the vow.


    The celebrant points to the certificate.


    ''Mr. Glarean, please sign here.''


    He signs.


    ''Ms. Knight, please sign here.''


    I sign.


    ''Lionel Glarean, please sign here as a witness.''


    He signs.


    ''Casey Shoreditch, please sign here as a witness.''


    She signs despite weeping so much she''s struggling to see.


    ''Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Glarean. You are now husband and wife.''


    ''That''s it?''


    Jaq looks shocked.


    ''That''s it.''


    ''That was a lot shorter than I was expecting. There wasn''t even a kiss.''


    ''Yeah, like I said. Legal minimum. Most people like pomp and ceremony. The version at the hospital will be quite a bit longer.''


    I catch Jaq looking longingly at the certificate. I nudge him sharply. He looks guilty.


    Behind him, Casey takes the certificate, rolls it, puts it into a small document tube and tucks it into her handbag. She''s the only one I trust absolutely. She''s the only one I could leave filing the certificate to.


    The celebrant claps his hands together.


    ''Alright. Are we ready for the real show?''


    <hr>


    The hospital room is as unrecognisable as I''d hoped it would be. Frances had a large, airy room with a nice view of the hospital garden. All to herself. Now it''s almost a florist''s shop, sans price tags and sales staff. Wall-to-wall flowers.


    Frances looks small and frail. Her withered face is pale. She''s not doing well.


    Isaac isn''t much better.


    He''s gone to the effort of changing into a clean suit, at least. He''s made no effort to disguise the dark bags under his eyes, though.


    Sal positions himself outside Frances'' door, streaming everything he sees to a private channel with his phone camera, waiting for the hand off of the documents.


    By the time I''m done putting on my veil, he''s already identified possible goons in the hallway.


    Inside the room, the photographer makes me uneasy.


    He seems just a little too... something. Slick? Greasy? Smug? There''s something off about him.


    He stays too close to me, watches everything too intently. It''s a photographer''s job to observe, but this...


    I don''t like him.


    I''m so glad I insisted on making the real copy before we left the estate. Between the photographer, the nurse standing over Frances'' bed, Frances, and Isaac, it would have been impossible to make a second copy here. I might have been able to ask for a second one to ''keep at home'' if it were only Frances and Isaac. Frances might even have thought it was cute that I wanted to keep a copy.


    I don''t like that there''s a nurse who won''t leave the room.


    Is Frances that sick, or is she one of Charles'' henchmen?


    I hate the photographer.


    The ceremony for Frances is long and florid. Just like the walls of flowers decorating the room. I can''t concentrate. My eyes are constantly drawn to that weasel of a photographer, skulking and snapping photos. I almost miss my cue to repeat the vow.


    I catch Frances smiling from the corner of my eye. She must think I''m nervous.


    I hope she''s reliving happy memories from when she was still in love with Isaac.


    Jaq''s hands shake when he signs the fake certificate.


    Mine are steady.


    We''re already married.


    This is a play.


    Frances and Isaac are the witnesses for the fake certificate. The celebrant stands conspicuously close to the window and places the certificate into an ornate document case, then passes it to Sal outside.


    Both the photographer and the nurse watch like hawks.


    I hate them.


    I don''t like that Frances is in this hospital.


    The celebrant says to Sal;


    ''Would you hold this? We don''t want to misplace it.''


    Sal takes the document folder and stands outside with it held openly in his hands, waiting.


    I pose for photos with my maid of honour.


    Jaq poses for photos with his best man.


    I crouch down in my terrible white heels so I can be in a photo with my mother-in-law. She''s not happy about being photographed in this state. She tugs on my arm before I stand, quietly telling me to take the marriage certificate directly to be filed.


    ''Don''t worry. It''s our first stop once we leave.''


    She seems relieved.


    Those of us that can leave the hospital step out.


    We''re in the car park before I get a text from Charles.


    <blockquote>


    Give the certificate to the man in the red jacket next to the 5k speed sign to your left.


    </blockquote>


    I turn to the left. In doing so, I spot the photographer still behind us.


    The man in the jacket looks menacing. He gestures at us.


    ''Sal? Would you ask that gentleman what he wants?''


    He nods and walks over.


    The man speaks quietly with Sal, looks over at the photographer, who nods, and then the man holds his hand out.


    Sal gives him the certificate.


    I feel Jaq wince as the man crumples the page in his hands.


    We return to the cars in silence.


    Sal and the celebrant get into their own car.


    A silver car follows them out of the parking lot.


    I pray they''re not in any trouble.


    Hollis'' car is waiting in the street beside the parking lot to collect Casey. He has no idea why he''s her chauffeur, though he was a little miffed he wasn''t invited to the private ceremony. At least; he was disappointed until I explained it was being held in a hospital room.


    They seem to get away without anyone following.


    Jaq and I climb into Lionel''s car.


    Once the doors are shut, I can finally breathe.


    Lionel begins to ask about the man in red. I shush him.


    ''No explanations. Not yet. Drive.''


    We''re being followed too. This car is a dark navy blue.


    ''Do you see the blue car behind us?''


    ''Yeah?''


    ''That''s why we can''t talk.''


    ''Why do we have a tail?''


    I glare at Lionel.


    ''What did I just say?''


    We drive back to the estate. The car stays behind us until we pull into the driveway.


    ''Okay, we''re here. Why do we have a tail?''


    I hold up a finger to my lips, indicating silence.


    ''Why are we being quiet here?''


    I lead them out into the garden - a nice open spot where we can see anyone approaching.


    ''Because Pitch is paranoid that I''m actually marrying you. He has people everywhere, watching us. He might even have bugged the car.''


    ''You sound paranoid.''


    ''Really? Because I got an angry call from him about our ''secret wedding'' not 10 minutes after I let Isaac know the wedding was set for Friday. I don''t think Isaac would''ve told him, so someone else at the hospital must have been eavesdropping.''


    ''What? Why didn''t you tell us?''


    ''Because if I said anything, one or both of you would have done something to make him even more suspicious.''


    They both look upset. I don''t care if they''re insulted by my bluntness. I don''t have the mental bandwidth to deal with their delicate feelings right now.


    ''He had people inside the hotel stealing my garbage so he could rifle through it. He had people following me around the city, taking photos of me. It''s not unreasonable to suspect he has someone working here feeding him information about my activities and whereabouts inside the estate.''


    ''But why are they watching Mother? Isn''t he just jealous about you being with Jaq?''


    I''ve cornered myself. I have to explain it all now.


    Oh my god, I cannot trust these foolish boys to keep it quiet.


    ''I can''t risk explaining more here.''


    They both look terrified.


    Good.


    My phone buzzes in my tiny little pink handbag.


    <blockquote>


    Certificate submitted successfuly.


    </blockquote>


    I think I might die of relief.

 25. Gluttonous Seagull

    Saturday


    By the time I finish my coffee, the workshop is full of people. I''m glad I''m not alone today. A cold, syrupy dread has sunk into all the spaces around my internal organs. When I''m alone, it immobilises me. When there are people nearby, I have the motivation to put on my ''everything is fine and normal'' face, and that gives me the strength to act like everything is fine and normal.


    Labourer wages are being paid out for this by the day. I made certain that if Frances died before it was done, my friends wouldn''t be out any more than a single day''s work.


    I''m not classed as a labourer, though. If Frances dies too soon, he''ll probably find some way of breaking the contract in a way that means I''m left unpaid.


    It''s fine. I don''t need this money. I just want it so he doesn''t have it.


    I want it so he can''t use it to hurt someone.


    Though perhaps that logic doesn''t work. If I do a good job, then I''ll be helping him make more money.


    If I didn''t do this, he''d just hire someone else to do it for a lot less than I''m being paid now. He''d be a lot better off financially if I refused the job.


    I''m struggling to concentrate on anything. The design I''m trying to transfer onto an MDF panel looks like it was drawn by a very large two-year-old.


    I fold up the pantograph and put it aside. I need a break.


    There are some texts from Charles.


    <blockquote>


    I sent you a gift ;)


    She''ll be there around midday


    It''s your first chance to make a name for yourself


    </blockquote>


    What on earth?


    Whatever.


    I cross the massive room, heading towards the front of the warehouse. There''s a coffee shop out there. Caffeine will either make me more anxious or give me enough energy to keep going. Right now, I feel like it''s worth the gamble.


    I see an unfamiliar woman in a red and white pinstripe shirt outside in the car park, approaching the door. She waves when she sees me.


    ''Oh, hi! Did you see me parking? I''m sorry I''m a bit early.''


    I guess this is Charles'' gift.


    ''I''m sorry, who are you?''


    ''Oh, yes, I''m Maggie Lee, from Hard Clef Magazine? Are you Joanne Knight?''


    ''That''s correct.''


    ''Mr. Pitch said you''d be available for an interview about his upcoming music video?''


    I am grossly unprepared for an interview.


    ''Sure thing. Before we start though, I''ve got to get a cup of coffee in me. You want one?''


    She looks surprised. I''m not sure if it''s my overly casual tone, or the offer to get her a cup of coffee.


    ''Yes please.''


    We sit at one of the caf¨¦''s tiny tables, waiting for our drinks. I ordered a sandwich as well. Anything to delay the start of the interview. I need time to gather my thoughts.


    ''So what kind of article are you hoping to write?''


    ''What do you mean?''


    How do I word this...


    ''Is this a hype article? Do you want me to show you cool stuff in the workshop you can drop hints about? Are you looking for material for a more in-depth feature story? I mean, if you want cute personal anecdotes for a short puff piece about Pitch, and I give you some long emotional tale, it''s not going to be much use to you.''


    ''Oh.''


    She looks surprised again.


    ''People don''t normally ask me questions like that.''


    I shrug.


    ''I''d rather not waste your time. I''m happy to work with you, so long as I don''t have to lie or break an NDA.''


    She smiles.


    ''It''s not just a hype piece. I''m supposed to interview you as the up-and-coming artist behind the set for the video. I''d prefer it to be a nice, uplifting story, but as long as it''s interesting, I can make anything work.''


    I nod, trying to look thoughtful.


    ''Sure. Let me think.''


    I know exactly what to tell her.


    ''If you want uplifting, I think it might be worthwhile if I start from the first time I met Pitch... like, three weeks ago.''


    It''ll look like a cute story that flatters him, at first. It''s going to lay a solid foundation for a future expos¨¦. Facts. Events. A breadcrumb trail of evidence that can be used to corroborate future statements.


    ''It''s only been three weeks since you met him?''


    I''m going to drag him.


    ''Yeah. It''s been pretty hectic.''


    It''s hard to believe he finally gave me a gift that I can really appreciate.


    <hr>


    I sit in my heavily personalised guestroom, surrounded by notes. I can''t leave any of these bits of paper here, where they might be found and read by a nosy cleaner. They have to travel with me everywhere. In consideration of that, I''m doing my level best to keep everything neat and orderly.


    It''s a losing battle.


    These are a sort of... addendum to the original notes I made about my relationship with Jaq. Everything that has happened since I met Jaq''s parents, paying special attention to every encounter with Charles or one of his suspected flunkies. This time I''m not desperate to manufacture nonexistent evidence. This time I just have to gather it, sort it, organise it, and store it safely.


    That reminds me; my original notes are still in Jaq''s car. Cars aren''t too hard to break into. Any idiot can smash a window, flip the back seat forwards and access the boot. I need to move them.


    Stop it, Jo. Focus on the task at hand.


    There were photos Charles showed me on his phone that I never got copies of. There''s security footage I wish I had access to. Conversations I wish I''d recorded.


    Knowing the gaps is good. It''ll help me design better means of collecting the evidence I need in the future.


    I think I am going to have to pull a Nixon.


    It felt stupid when it first occurred to me - like I was going way too far for something that probably wasn''t anywhere near as bad as I imagined it to be.


    I wasn''t catastrophising though. It really was that bad. Worse.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I never expected him to drug me.


    Now, I feel justified in wanting body cameras that provide a constant 360¡ã view of my surroundings.


    Even without resorting to those extreme measures, I''ve managed to collect a lot that can be used to damn him. He gave me quite a bit of it himself.


    I have phone footage of the creeps at the hospital - but we could have missed some of them. There could have been more that we didn''t see at the time because we weren''t being paranoid enough.


    Some will be enough. Some trace of a money trail. Some incriminating message logs. Some photos. Some dash-cam footage. Some is all I need to begin to take him down.


    I want all.


    I want his destruction to be so complete that there is no future for him.


    Does the punishment fit the crime?


    I''m not qualified to judge.


    I don''t care.


    I stretch my legs out, gently shifting things to make room.


    Revenge tales are fun. The righteous gunslinger who''s been horribly wronged singlehandedly taking down bandits, crooked lawmen and anyone else foolish enough to get in his way. Problem is; those stories usually end with a dead protagonist. I don''t want to go down with Charles.


    I''ll only go down if he can prove I''m not Jaq''s real wife. But, he can''t. I''m literally Jaq''s wife.


    Jaq doesn''t know that yet.


    I don''t want him to know. Ever. I want to be done divorcing him before he even suspects it might have happened.


    It can''t happen that way. That''s not how marriage law works. I only made it this far without his knowledge because he''s a gullible idiot.


    I''ll cross that bridge after I''m done with Charles.


    Tap tap.


    Was that the door?


    ''Who is it?''


    The door opens a crack, letting Jaq peek in.


    ''Come in, you dummy. Shut the door behind you.''


    ''What''s all this?''


    I flap my hand dismissively.


    ''It''s something I can''t talk about. Get over here.''


    I move some things on the bed beside me, then get up to rummage in the unsorted box of art supplies. I''m not sure if I''m pretending I think the house is bugged, or if I''m serious about it. I suppose it doesn''t matter. I find an a4-sized whiteboard. I stole it from the theatre. I meant to give it back. We used it for cues when people were practising their lines at home. I''m pretty sure there''s a whiteboard marker in here too...


    Aha.


    I scribble quickly, the half-dry marker protesting at its unexpected use.


    ''Pitch won''t stop. I''m working out how to take him down.''


    I show it to Jaq. He opens his mouth to reply, but I shush him.


    I wipe the words off with my hand, then pass him the board.


    ''What''s going on?''


    He hands it back.


    ''He''s after your money. All of it. He has a way to take it.''


    ''How?''


    ''Long story. Short version; I can keep it safe.''


    ''How?''


    ''Long story. Can''t explain here. Trust me. I''ll explain when it''s safe.''


    He stares at me long and hard.


    ''OK''


    I start packing up the notes.


    He writes;


    ''It''s fine, I''ll go.''


    I shake my head.


    I tuck the stack of paper into the pillowcase of a spare pillow. It''ll keep it hidden and neat for now.


    I need to give him a timeline for when ''everything will be explained.'' I can''t leave him hanging forever. He''ll lose whatever tenuous scrap of faith he has in me, and start to make my life difficult. His own life would get harder too, but he won''t know that if I don''t tell him anything. I have to say something so he knows not to meddle.


    Out loud, I say;


    ''When''s the last time you went to the beach?''


    He looks confused.


    ''I don''t know? Years ago?''


    I take the board from him and write;


    ''A beach is a good place to speak without being heard. Ambient noise, lots of open space to see people following us. Hard to plant bugs in advance.''


    Out loud I say;


    ''I''d like to go to the beach sometime soon. We can bring your brother if you want. He probably needs more reasons to leave the house.''


    Jaq looks like he''s trying to work out what''s safe to say out loud. I erase my message and write;


    ''Just say you''d like to go to the beach.''


    He looks relieved.


    ''Sure, I''d like to go to the beach.''


    ''Next week?''


    ''Yeah, next week sounds good.''


    I erase the board again and drop it back into the box it came from.


    Now I have to work out how much of my plan it''s safe to reveal to him. How much can I say before he tips off Charles through changes in his behaviour? How much before he openly says something he shouldn''t in front of someone he shouldn''t speak to at all? I honestly don''t know. I haven''t known him long enough. If only I could trust Lionel not to do something stupid. He''s definitely the more reliable of the two, but... I''d be telling him he''s illegitimate. His ''Mother'' isn''t actually his mother. That''s a pretty extreme revelation.


    Though...


    If Charles thinks Jaq''s found out what he''s up to, I might be able to extort more out of him. He''ll want me to string Jaq along with the prospect of a real marriage to protect his assets. So long as both he and Jaq don''t know Jaq''s already married...


    Do I dare be that greedy?


    What am I thinking?


    Of course I dare.


    ''If you''re free, we could even go tomorrow?''


    ''Uh, sure. I think I''m free. I''ll ask Lionel.''


    He steps out of the room.


    I''m going to need to make sure he visits me in here with some frequency. I need staff members who haven''t been bought by Charles to witness that we''re spending time in rooms alone together and to make assumptions about the things we''re doing. I need people who will corroborate the story that we really are married.


    Sunday


    The wind whips my hair about my face - it''s in my eyes, in my mouth. I don''t have my hands free to be constantly dragging it back behind my ear. I should have thought to put a hair tie in my little purse, full to bursting with all my stupid notes.


    I really need someone who knows fancy-girl style better than me to tell me just how big a bag I can get away with in these flouncy dresses. I live in dread of people seeing my lack of style and assuming I''m some kind of lower-class poseur.


    That those assumptions would be right is beside the point.


    The flouncy dress is having its own disagreement with the wind. I''ve got most of it gathered together in one hand to keep it from flying up and showing everyone my knickers. Nobody wants to see that. Still, it constantly threatens to pull itself loose and resume its violent thrashing.


    At least I have a good excuse to wear flat shoes when we''re walking on sand.


    The three of us walk along the waterline, the arm not occupied with maintaining my modesty linked with Jaq''s. He''s uncomfortable about it, but he''s allowing it. I only had to gently remind him we ought to be at least somewhat affectionate in public. It''s an enormous improvement on our first outing. He''s trying so hard.


    I glance back the way we came. It looks like we''re probably safe enough.


    ''What I''m about to tell you is going to hurt you. Both of you. These are bombs I''ve got here to drop. You might genuinely be better off not knowing, and just trusting that I''m doing everything I can to protect you - but I''d rather give you the option of transparency.''


    Lionel says;


    ''I want to know.''


    Jaq nods, solemnly, his eyes downcast.


    ''Then, what I''m about to tell you didn''t come from me. It''s best if you don''t speak about it until it''s been revealed to you officially, but if you must, you found out all by yourselves when you went snooping in Frances'' desk.''


    ''Sure, whatever.''


    ''Lionel; Frances isn''t your mother.''


    He stares at me.


    ''Isaac is your father, but Frances isn''t your mother. That''s at least part of why she hates him.''


    ''How do you know?''


    ''I''ve read Frances'' will. She doesn''t name your real mother, but she''s very clear on the fact that you''re not hers.''


    I let the silence continue for a few paces.


    ''This means Frances'' entire deceased estate is being left to Jaq - but there are some extremely problematic caveats.''


    Jaq says nothing.


    ''Firstly, she doesn''t think you''re capable of managing that much money, so her assets won''t be given directly to you. It''s all being put into a trust, with a manager who would have such complete control that they''d be able to just take the money and run, and you couldn''t do anything to stop them.''


    Jaq says nothing.


    ''There are two options for the trust manager. One if you''re unmarried, the other if you''re married.''


    Jaq says nothing.


    ''If you''re married, it''s your wife.''


    Jaq says nothing. Is he listening?


    ''If you''re unmarried, it''s Charles.''


    Jaq says nothing.


    ''Somehow, Charles knows he''s in line to be your trust manager. Maybe Frances told him when she was drafting her will. He knows that if he''s in charge of your trust he''s basically inheriting all her money himself. That''s why he tried so hard to drive me away when he thought we were a real couple. He saw me as a threat. He pulled right back when I told him we were faking it. The fact that you had a fake fianc¨¦e, and now a fake wife, works perfectly in his favour. It means Frances won''t push you into getting a real one. It means there''s no risk to his inheritance.''


    Come on, say something. Show me you''ve heard what I''m saying.


    ''The weird job he gave me? I didn''t understand it at the time, but now I''ve read the will, it makes complete sense. He''s given me that as his own bribe to keep me quietly playing along.''


    Please, say anything.


    ''This is why he sent people to collect the fake marriage certificate at the hospital. This is why he''s putting so much effort into watching us. He''s taking no risks when it comes to keeping his trust money safe.''


    Silence.


    ''Frances must have more money than God if he''s willing to hire and bribe this many people. I don''t have a clue how much it''d cost to put this close a watch on us, but it can''t be cheap.''


    I watch his face; impassive and unreadable.


    ''He''s not unstoppable though. There are some options to protect your money.''


    Nothing.


    ''The first; You need to get your lawyer to secretly draft a pre-nuptial agreement that your wife will immediately sign over the entirety of Frances'' trust to you the second she''s made trust manager, and then you need to be legally married, and all that needs to happen before Frances passes.''


    Lionel turns his head sharply. I suspect he understands what''s happening.


    ''You absolutely cannot allow him to know you''re doing this. We already know he''s willing to hurt people. He might be willing to kill. On Friday, we saw that he has people in the hospital - the shady nurse, the goons outside - she''s been safe so far because he felt secure just waiting for her to die naturally. There''s a strong possibility Frances'' life might be at risk if he finds out you''re planning to get married for real.''


    Finally, Jaq makes eye contact with me.


    ''If he finds out you''ve gotten married before Frances dies, then it''s your wife whose life will be in danger. He needs there to be no wife when Frances dies. I don''t like this option because I don''t like the idea of being responsible for someone''s death if it goes wrong.''


    ''What''s the other option?''


    ''I''ll need you to do exactly what I tell you, and ask no questions. What I''m doing will require precision and more subterfuge than I think either of you will be able to pull off. Jaq, you''re not a good liar. Lionel, you''re too loose-lipped.''


    ''What? I am not.''


    ''Yes, you are. Remember when you accidentally told me the identity of the woman whose clothes you leant me? The one you wanted to keep secret?''


    His steps falter briefly.


    ''Oh.''


    ''Yeah.''


    ''...Okay.''


    A jogger with a dog approaches us across the sand. I put on my best sweetheart smile and loudly ask Jaq;


    ''Where would you choose to take us if you got to plan your ideal honeymoon vacation?''

 26. Forced Confrontation

    Monday


    I can''t get comfortable. All day I''ve been surreptitiously adjusting the weight of the cameras. I guess, not so much the cameras themselves; it''s the battery, memory bank, and goofy-looking transmitter. I swear you can find more advanced tech in a bottom-of-the-line mobile phone from any random electronics store. The marketing copy claimed this is the best wireless personal safety system money can buy. I''m certain that''s a lie.


    I didn''t buy it because it was the ''best''. I don''t need ''best''. So long as faces are recognisable, and conversations can be mostly understood, it''s good enough. Reviews and third-party demo videos assured me that it met my minimum standard.


    The real reason I bought this one, in particular, is because I could get it delivered this morning before I left for work.


    I toss my sandwich wrapper in the bin and walk back across the street to the warehouse.


    An unfamiliar car pulls into the car park and slows to a stop beside me. The window rolls down.


    ''Get in.''


    I glance in. Charles himself. I expected an intermediary.


    ''I have work to do - I can''t leave.''


    More assertively, he repeats;


    ''Get. In.''


    I look at him, my expression as annoyed and confused as I can manage.


    ''I don''t want to get into a car with you. We can talk right here. We don''t have to go anywhere.''


    ''Don''t make me say it again.''


    I glance around, looking for anyone at all to try to signal. No luck. It''s fine. The security camera will capture my unwillingness to go.


    I open the door and sit, but leave my feet out on the pavement; the door open.


    ''What do you want?''


    He starts to drive, forcing me to quickly bring my feet up. I use them to hold the door wide open, so it''s extremely clear to onlookers that I''m not happy about being driven away.


    ''I said I don''t want to go anywhere! Seriously, why are you acting like a gangster? This isn''t okay. You can''t keep just randomly kidnapping and drugging people when you''re upset about something.''


    He stops, just before the gate. I guess he doesn''t want to scratch his car.


    I know what''s happening. I told Jaq to go get the copy of the will from Frances'' office and leave it in his room, out in the open, then take Lionel to go visit Frances in the hospital. I told them to go eat at that terrible cafeteria, and when they were sure they had someone listening in, have a conversation about inheritance that Charles wouldn''t be able to ignore.


    ''Use your words! Tell me what I''ve done wrong!''


    He looks over, eyes narrow.


    ''I''m doing what you wanted. I''m doing everything you wanted. I''m playing along with his silly game. I''m building your set. What have I missed?''


    He doesn''t answer. He can''t ask me if I know about the inheritance without tipping me off that I might have more to gain by siding with Jaq.


    ''You said you forbid me from marrying him. In those words. ''I forbid it.'' I still haven''t married him, so it can''t be that you''re pissed at me for.''


    ''Has he asked you?''


    I look at him with bafflement.


    ''No? Why would he? The fake ceremony stopped Frances nagging him. And, before you jump to assumptions, I haven''t been trying to seduce him either. I''m still not interested in him. We''d be an absolutely terrible couple -''


    ''Shut up.''


    I can almost see the gears turning in his head. Little curly wisps of smoke rising from his ears. I feel like I might be in genuine danger, but I also feel compelled to push the ignorant dupe act further;


    ''I really think you should try to talk to him. Tell him about your feelings-''


    ''Shut up!''


    I shut up.


    I see someone coming out of the warehouse door in the rearview mirror. I pray they walk over to the car so he''s forced to either kick me out or straight up kidnap me a second time. Then there will be police involved.


    My story - if I live to tell it - will be entitled ''Damselling in Distress Like a Girlboss.''


    I hate myself for thinking that''s funny. A giggle is rolling around at the bottom of my lungs, desperately trying to find a handhold so it can escape. I try to strangle it.


    ''He''s going to ask you to marry him.''


    ''What? Why?''


    ''Because he wants to hurt me! He''ll probably say he really is in love with you. Or, he''ll come up with some complicated story about how he needs you for his inheritance. Some kind of stupid lie. You''re going to play along. Report to me absolutely everything.''


    ''Why do you want me to play along?''


    ''Because I said so!''


    I wince at the volume.


    ''Okay, chief. I''ll play along.''


    He flicks his hand at me in dismissal. I get out.


    I watch him drive away.


    He bought it. All of it.


    ''You okay, Jo?''


    I turn back toward the voice. It''s Ollie.


    ''That man scares the hell out of me.''


    ''Who?''


    ''Mr. NDA. The guy we''re building this stuff for.''


    ''Oh, shit.''


    ''Don''t worry. Everything''s fine. He''s just trying to reassure himself of his own dominance and superiority by being a controlling dick.''


    ''Let us know if you need help.''


    I nod, grateful for the camaraderie.


    I''m going to have to force more of these confrontations. This one gave me footage of intimidation, a little hint of his conspiracy to defraud Jaq out of his inheritance, and tacit admission to past intimidation attempts. It''s not quite the perfect smoking gun I''m looking for. It''s a start, though.


    ''You''re already helping. I think we''ll be ready for paint by Wednesday, so there''s no reason he should be worried about the sets.''


    ''It''s crazy how fast this is going. I guess it helps when you''ve got an infinitely large workshop, duplicates of every tool, and everyone can work at the same time.''


    ''Yeah. It''s pretty wild.''


    Tuesday


    I sit across from Jaq at a table that feels slightly too large for two people, gentle music playing in the background. I chose this restaurant because online reviews said it''s nice and quiet at lunchtime.


    My tail isn''t very well hidden - he really can''t be if he wants to sit close enough to hear our conversation. There aren''t enough patrons to excuse how close he''s sitting - and who comes to a place like this without a date? His spycraft is rubbish.


    Not that I''m all that knowledgeable about the topic. I''ve been reading about it all week. That doesn''t make me an expert.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I arrange the latest issue of Hard Clef toward the edge of the table, dangling open just a little. It''s as close to taunting him as I dare. That carefully sculpted article is in there, with all its hidden meanings and dark implications. I''m sure there must be people somewhere online dissecting it and questioning why he''d be so irrationally kind to someone else''s fianc¨¦e.


    Jaq leans across the table, reaching for my hands. I allow him to take them. His expression is somewhere between abject terror and constipation.


    ''Jo. I, um. I asked you to meet me for lunch today so I could propose. Properly.''


    I see small beads of sweat forming on his forehead.


    ''Please, will you marry me? Really.''


    The man listening in shifts in his seat, trying to lean closer without drawing attention.


    ''Jaq... you know that''s a bad idea.''


    ''It''s not. It''s really not.''


    ''But it is.''


    ''No, listen. I like you. A lot. And I need you.''


    ''You don''t need me.''


    ''Yes, I do, because I trust you. I trust you''ll be professional.''


    ''What kind of proposal is that?''


    ''I read Mother''s will. I need to be actually married. I need a real wife so I can inherit, or it''s lost.''


    ''Lost?''


    He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a sheaf of folded paper. He flips to a marked page and points to a highlighted passage.


    ''You were right when you said Charles gave you the creeps. I should have listened. If I''m not married, he''s got a way to steal it all.''


    You''re doing so well, Jaq. These lines are perfect.


    ''So, marry me. Please.''


    I pause, looking deeply into his eyes. The man at the other table leans almost comically close to us.


    ''I''ll think about it.''


    Jaq sags in relief. The scripted part of our conversation is over.


    The man at the other table is hurridly typing something into his phone.


    ''Give me a minute. I need to use the restroom.''


    I pat Jaq''s hand and walk away as he tucks the photocopied will back into his coat.


    In the restroom, I copy and paste a previously composed message to Charles;


    <blockquote>


    You were right. He did propose. We need to talk.


    </blockquote>


    He''ll like that I reported this myself. He won''t like what I have to say when we meet.


    I send the time and location for our meeting. I hope he''s upset enough that he agrees without thinking.


    He''s erratic at the best of times - I can''t expect anything to go the way I want it to when he''s involved. I chose a park with plenty of trees and hiding spots. Places I can have my theatre friends hanging out, ready to approach in a group if I signal them. They know he''s the boss asking for the sets we''re making lightning fast. They know I''m scared of him. They know people like him. They''ve all met men drunk on their own power and prestige before. We''re not wild and vicious animals like he is, but we are a family, and we know we''re strong enough together to frighten men like him away.


    I''m debating whether I should wait for his response or return to Jaq when his response appears on my screen;


    <blockquote>


    Agreed.


    </blockquote>


    This is going to make riveting cinema, regardless of how closely it follows my plan. There''s no way it won''t.


    <hr>


    I deliberately take my time walking down the path beside the park''s fence. I''m still being followed. I don''t want it to be hard for the guy to keep up, and I want the people who went ahead of me to the park to see him. I showed them a photo Jaq took of him in the restaurant while I was in the bathroom. Now they know I''m definitely not exaggerating.


    I reach the gate and pause. The tail stops to tie his shoe. He must have used that move at least four times since I got off the bus. Why not just pretend to check your phone?


    The only explanation I can think of that makes sense is that Charles wants me to know I''m being followed. It''s part of his intimidation routine.


    I look ahead to the park bench I planned to meet Charles at. I see two of my friends over by the children''s play equipment, sitting at the end of the slide and chatting. One''s keeping an eye on the gate, and me.


    I want to stop time right here. I''m safe enough here, now. I''m not ready to throw down the gauntlet.


    I have to.


    I walk down the path to the bench, 10 minutes early for the meeting.


    Charles arrives only two minutes after me.


    I guess he was nearby, waiting to be told I was in position.


    I whisper to my cameras and microphones;


    ''Here he comes.''


    Nobody is listening on the other end, but it makes me feel better.


    I stand and wait until he''s close enough to kick before I speak;


    ''You lied to me.''


    ''What?''


    He chuckles.


    ''That''s an interesting way to start a friendly chat.''


    ''You said you loved him, and he was with me because he was trying to hurt you because he was being petty about some stupid lover''s spat.''


    He holds up his hands, a convincingly innocent look on his face;


    ''It''s true-''


    ''It''s not. I saw the will. This whole time it''s been about taking his money.''


    I turn away from him in disgust.


    ''You never loved him, you never cared. You attacked me and intimidated me, you kidnapped me and poisoned me - all this stuff, not because you were desperately in love and jealous of him paying more attention to me, but because you wanted to rob him blind!''


    ''I don''t want to rob him blind! I do love him!''


    ''I told you, if the two of you were in love, I wouldn''t get in the way. But, you never had a relationship with him. You''re a liar. I don''t have any obligation to you.''


    I start to walk away from him, but he grabs my arm, dragging me back. I struggle to stay on my feet.


    ''Listen here, missy, you''ll do what I say, or you''ll regret it.''


    I look into his face, warped beyond recognition by rage. I feel the cold prickling of fear along my back and in my feet. From the corner of my eye, I see my friends tense and ready to run to my aid.


    ''No, I won''t.''


    ''Everything I''ve given you, I can take back.''


    ''Jaq can give me more than you''re even capable of taking from me.''


    He stops, his hand still wrapped around my arm. I''m certain it will bruise.


    ''What''s he giving you.''


    This is what I was counting on.


    ''More than you.''


    He shakes me.


    ''What is he giving you.''


    Yes, bargain with me, you fucker.


    I hold his gaze.


    ''A quarter.''


    He releases me and turns away, his arms swinging like he''s punching an invisible assailant.


    ''FUCK.''


    He faces me again, calm and composed, if a little red.


    ''A third.''


    Again, I hold his gaze. My voice as steady as I can manage, I say;


    ''You''re supposed to be his best friend.''


    The rage bubbling just beneath the surface threatens to burst out, but with effort, he keeps it in check.


    ''A third. That''s the best you''re gonna get.''


    ''You think that''s what I want?''


    ''You want to be my wife?''


    ''No!''


    ''What do you want then? Pretty dresses? Toys? Fame? You can have it! I''ll give it to you.''


    ''I don''t trust you. If you''re willing to fuck over your best friend, you''ll throw me aside without a thought.''


    ''How am I supposed to prove you can trust me?''


    ''Pay upfront.''


    ''I can''t, I literally don''t have the estate yet!''


    ''Then, I want you to pay my entire wage for the sets upfront.''


    ''Fine.''


    ''I want documents outlining everything you intend to give from the estate.''


    ''Fine.''


    ''I want them signed by you. No legal proxies. You. I want to see you sign them, myself.''


    ''Done.''


    ''I want you to prove your goodwill with actions, not words. No more threats. No more intimidation. If I''m supposed to be your ally, then you shouldn''t be treating me like an enemy.''


    ''Fine.''


    I almost want to cry. This is too perfect.


    His face shifts to a smile.


    ''You''re a tenacious bitch.''


    ''I know my worth.''


    I walk back out of the park, past the tail. I give him a friendly wave. He looks alarmed.


    That was it. The centrepiece I needed for his complete destruction. That footage. The document showing Charles intends to give me things that definitely don''t belong to him is almost unnecessary at this point.


    I still want it. There''s no sense in turning down more irrefutable proof.


    <hr>


    It''s later than I''d like when I enter the hotel''s conference room, heavy suitcase in tow. I don''t think I was being followed, but I still made sure to change cars, duck in and out of alleys and back roads, and once I was on foot I squeezed through crowds and hid in random shops, waiting for a tail to pass me by.


    Casey rushes over to hug me, wordlessly sobbing. I hold her tight. She needs comfort more than me.


    I deliberately changed into short sleeves when I saw the bruises forming on my arm. It strengthens my story. Underlines it. Puts it in bold.


    I didn''t want to make Casey cry.


    I look around, surveying the faces. They look grim, nervous, sick. Sitting in among my chosen family, Maggie; my small-time reporter, a private investigator, and my Executioner. She told me not to do this; it was too dangerous. When I told her she couldn''t stop me, that I wanted justice for more than just myself, she asked to be included. I didn''t think she was that soft-hearted.


    ''If any of you are scared, you''re going to want to go home now. He''s not afraid to hurt people. Telling you this stuff makes you targets.''


    I sound like some kind of ridiculously macho action hero.


    Nobody moves.


    ''I''m serious. If he catches wind of this before we''re ready, we''re all in danger.''


    Laurie mumbles;


    ''I''m not going anywhere.''


    Those close enough to overhear nod their agreement.


    ''I guess that means you''re all ready to take down a monster.''


    I tip the suitcase on its side and unzip it, revealing folders full of paper and a stack of portable hard drives. Somewhere under there is a laptop full of overpriced video editing software, and a portable lighting rig.


    ''We have a lot to prepare.''


    I take out the hard drive with the dash cam footage of the kidnapping and the toxicology report. They think they understand how dangerous he is. They saw him manhandle me in public. I need them to really understand. Fear will keep their mouths shut tighter than loyalty and a sense of righteousness alone.


    ''This video will show you exactly why I don''t think I''m the only one he''s hurt. I''m certain we''ll be able to find more people like me. There''s no way this is step one on someone''s descent into this kind of violence.''


    I press play.


    On the top left side of the screen, the inside of a nondescript hotel hallway comes into view.


    ''Lionel? Can you hear me? ...Okay, good. I''m going to head down now. Are you ready to follow? ...Awesome.''


    On the top right side of the screen, another camera feed comes on, this one in the street, looking at the back of a random car. A moment later, in the bottom right, another view of the same street, facing the opposite direction.


    I''ve done nothing to abridge the video. I think it''s more effective in a situation like this if it''s complete. The only editing I''ve done is to add the dash-cam footage from Lionel''s car.


    The image on the left is unsteady as I walk to the lift, taking it down to the last floor before the lobby. There''s a glimpse of my entire outfit in the mirrored back of the lift doors. I exit and cross to the stairwell.


    ''I''m going to take the stairs. He''ll be watching the lift. Hopefully the signal doesn''t drop.''


    I descend, my heavy echoing footsteps drowning out all other sound.


    The camera sweeps across the people in the lobby, resting on a dim and blurry outline of a gigantic man, head and shoulders above everyone else.


    ''He''s here.'' I whisper, putting the phone in my pocket.


    Lionel''s car leaves the parking lot. The rear camera pans across Charles propped up against the side of his own car, where he''d been left, feigning unconsciousness. I stop the video as he sits up and touches his face, checking for blood.


    ''If anyone''s interested, this is the toxicology report.''


    I push it towards the middle of the conference table. I don''t want to look up into their faces. I don''t want to see their pity. I know it''s going to reopen my own wounds. I can''t look at the floor forever.


    ''Jo... I didn''t realise it was... I''m so sorry.''


    Casey has me in a vice-grip. I can''t stop myself from crying. I want to tell her she''s done nothing wrong, that there was nothing to realise, that I''m the one who was keeping secrets.


    Chloe places her hand on my arm, sympathetically, not wanting to join the hug.


    ''This is why you told me to keep an eye out for weird people after the break-in. He... he''s the one who broke into our house.''


    I nod.


    ''He broke in to steal stuff to blackmail you with.''


    I nod again.


    ''I laughed at you. You were trying to warn me, and I laughed at you.''


    She looks broken.


    ''I''m sorry.''


    I want to shout ''Stop apologising!''


    I can''t make my throat work.

 27. Turtle

    Wednesday


    I peel the painting mask off my face, careful not to tangle and tear out a clump of hair with the nasty little clasp on the back.


    I''m bone-tired. I''ve been drinking coffee all day. It''s done nothing to help me. If anything, it''s made things worse. Now I have the jitters.


    Primer paint doesn''t need the steadiest hand in the world. It''s fine.


    Grey, white and black primed pieces lay drying, strewn across the entire warehouse. Even out here, the smell is strong enough to knock down an elephant.


    ''Everyone out?''


    ''All accounted for.''


    ''Okay, locking up for the day. Good work everyone.''


    Once I''ve double-checked the doors, I begin my circuitous route to our next meeting place.


    I''m still operating under the assumption that I''m being followed, but whoever it is is staying a lot further back. They''re harder to spot. Hard enough to spot that I''m not sure I have yet.


    As far as Charles will be concerned his spy lost me while I was shopping.


    I''m sure he won''t think much of it. He did just hand over an awful lot of cash. He seems to be under the impression that I''m shallow and vain, so obviously I''d go shopping the second I got paid.


    I hate him so much.


    If I go missing too often, he will be suspicious. This is two nights in a row. I can''t keep this up.


    They won''t need me in person every day, just days when I need to record a statement. I''ve already done most of the ones I thought I''d need. Carefully worded descriptions of unrecorded events. A masterful explanation for why he thinks I''m in a fake relationship. I won''t be ''missing'' for long today, either. I''m just here to deliver a USB with the recording of the confrontation from yesterday. I could have given it to someone else. I could have sent it over the internet. Dead drops and file sharing risk it being intercepted by the wrong person, though. So, here I am.


    I surreptitiously open the door to the Karaoke bar and duck inside. The receptionist sends me up the stairs.


    Maggie hugs me the moment I open the door - startling me. I wasn''t expecting it. I guess she must have seen Casey, and assumed it was the right greeting. It''s more comforting than a hug from an almost stranger should be.


    ''Hello -''


    ''Seven.''


    It''s the private investigator. I think her name is Jo, just like me. It''s going to be confusing.


    ''Seven?''


    ''I''ve found seven others. Like you.''


    It takes a moment to sink in.


    I said I thought there would be others. It wasn''t a lie. I thought it was possible. I don''t think I truly believed there would be.


    ''Oh.''


    ''I''ve barely even scratched the surface - there''s going to be more. There are anonymous horror stories about him everywhere. Having all your actor friends has really helped my investigation. They''re not conspicuous when they ask other performers questions. People open up to them.''


    ''How many will testify in court?''


    ''No idea, yet. Once I have a better gauge of the total number of people, it''ll be easier to persuade all of them. Strength in numbers, you know.''


    ''Yeah.''


    I had strength in numbers. These other people probably didn''t. The horrible date that ended in an attempted kidnapping for me... well. For them, without someone watching and protecting them...


    I fish around in my pocket and pass the USB to the Executioner. She takes it without a word.


    I never fully contended with the possible outcomes that I avoided when Lionel punched Charles.


    I don''t think I wanted to.


    I feel weak. Unprepared. Insignificant.


    I shouldn''t have come here alone. Now, I have to leave alone. I haven''t seen anyone suspicious, but I''m probably still being followed. Whoever it is is doing a far better job than the other guy. They''re professional. Their orders may not end with just following me.


    My phone rings.


    Charles.


    I hold my hand up to the room to silence them.


    ''Answer it. We''re here.''


    I accept the call.


    ''Hello?''


    ''Jojo, my little Joey-jo-jo. Where are you right now?''


    ''I''m in the city, shopping. Why?''


    ''Where exactly, Joey dearest?''


    I look around, hoping for some flash of inspiration.


    ''I''m near the corner of... I think Exhibition and Latrobe?''


    There''s silence for a moment.


    ''It''s awfully quiet for such a busy intersection.''


    ''Like I said, I''m near there. In a store. I''m not standing right out in the middle of the street.''


    ''Well, wait there. I have something for you.''


    He hangs up.


    I''m shaking.


    It''s probably just the paperwork I asked for. It''s fine. Everything is fine.


    ''Jo, it''s okay, I''ll go with you. You can say you came here to meet me for dinner or something.''


    I look at Casey, so small and frail. I don''t think I''d ever noticed how thin her wrists were. How tiny her ankles. She always seemed so sturdy - but she''s no stronger than me, and I feel no stronger than wet tissue paper.


    She takes my hand.


    I nod.


    She waves goodbye to the others and we leave the way we came - out of the thick-walled fortress, into the open air.


    Why did I think I could go where I wanted? Of course, he wants me on a tight leash. He wouldn''t want his investment going missing.


    We walk silently toward the intersection until I pull away and into a brightly lit convenience store.


    ''Why are we in here?''


    ''I''ve got to have something on me, to prove I was shopping nearby, right?''


    ''That makes sense.''


    I purchase a bright purple drink with a label promising all sorts of important vitamins and minerals.


    We resume our march.


    ''Should you open it, take a few sips?''


    I look at it, suddenly disgusted by the unnatural colour. I take a sip anyway.


    We stand at the intersection, uncertain what we''re waiting for.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    A messenger on an electric bike stops at the curb and holds out a paper bag. The label on the bag reads ''Jojo.''


    I reach out and take it, exchanging a confused glance with Casey. The bag is light.


    Inside is a brightly coloured toy gun. The words ''Bang bang'' are scrawled on the receipt.


    ''That''s a death threat.''


    She sounds baffled.


    An echo of my own emotional state.


    Is this only because I''m defying him by hiding from his hired stalker?


    Did he catch wind that my friends are looking into his past misdeeds?


    Did he find out I secretly married Jaq?


    It can''t be that. If he knew that, I''m sure I would be dead. No silly toys made out as threats.


    ''Hey, Jo, let''s get off the street.''


    I nod absently and allow myself to be pulled into another store.


    Casey''s on the phone, telling someone about the gun.


    Can he kill me?


    He''s sunk a lot of money into keeping me in line. If I die now, now that Jaq knows about the will... he doesn''t get any of that money back. Jaq can marry anyone he likes. Whenever he likes. Charles'' current gambit relies on me being reluctant and playing hard to get while stringing Jaq along. My death would only hurt him - unless he killed Frances at the same time.


    How much is Frances'' deceased estate worth?


    Is it worth enough to risk being caught for a double homicide?


    I don''t even have a frame of reference for how much hiring a hitman would cost. Are those even real? It sounds like the kind of far-fetched fantasy you''d find in a silly gangster movie. I can suspend disbelief for the sake of enjoying a film, but in reality?


    ''Annie says you need to go home now - just go home and go to work tomorrow; do nothing weird or suspicious.''


    ''Sure. Ok. I''ll call a lift.''


    I don''t even remember who Annie is.


    I barely remember the car ride home - my mind is too preoccupied with trying to understand what on earth would make someone act like this. The only conclusion I can come to is that I''m not equipped to comprehend his motives. An incomparable sense of entitlement, unrepentant greed, some unknown cause for an outsized act of revenge... even a combination of all three isn''t enough to make this make sense to me. I''d have to be someone else to get it. Probably as someone who''s spent time around these kinds of people as a ''peer'' rather than as a pawn, or as their prey.


    I get into my room and lock the door. I push a chair up under the handle for good measure. I can''t do anything about the window.


    I dial Charles. He doesn''t answer. It might be better this way.


    To the answering machine, I say;


    ''Last time we spoke in person, I asked you to stop treating me like an enemy. I guess you can''t help yourself. A water gun? For real? Your death threat is about as childish as you are. What have I done to upset you? Were you trying to reassert dominance? Why did you even feel the need? I''m following your orders. I''m behaving. This kind of treatment makes me want to misbehave, so at least I''ll feel like I deserve it when you inevitably try to hurt me again.''


    I sigh, trying to assemble my thoughts into sentences. I should have written a script for this before I called.


    ''I''m going to pretend it didn''t happen. This time. Next time... Next time you''ll see just how badly I can act out.''


    I hang up.


    Moments later, there''s a knock at the door. I tense, expecting someone to knock the door off its hinges.


    Jaq calls out to me.


    I relax.


    I move the chair back out of the way, feeling foolish. I let him in the room.


    ''I thought you said you''d be out late?''


    He looks concerned.


    ''Yeah, Pitch sent me a death threat, so I came home early.''


    ''He what?''


    I hand him the bag with the gun.


    ''Bike messenger delivered this to me.''


    He looks inside, then puts it back down on the desk.


    ''I thought this way was supposed to be safer...''


    I whisper to him;


    ''Did you ever get that pre-nuptial agreement drafted?''


    ''What? No. I didn''t think I needed it anymore. You said this plan didn''t involve getting married.''


    ''You''re going to need the agreement drafted. It puts pressure on him.''


    ''Pressure? He''s already threatening to kill you!''


    He''s not going to do it.


    I sigh, exasperated this time.


    I open a sketchbook to a blank page and write;


    I, Joanne Knight, swear that if I gain control of any trusts or other funds intended for the benefit of Jaques Glarean, I will relinquish all control and rights to those trusts or other funds to Jaques Glarean immediately. If I ever divorce Jaques Glarean, I relinquish all claim on his estates (current or future), and will take only that which I entered the marriage with, is given specifically to me as gifts, or earned from my own work during the marriage.


    I date it, sign it and hand it to him. It''s probably not written right. It doesn''t matter. The point is that it exists. Maybe it''s better that it''s something I scribbled. Maybe that makes it look more like I mean it. When he finds out we''re married, the fact I made it and gave it to him should be evidence enough to prove that I didn''t fraudulently marry him to steal from him.


    It shouldn''t need to hold up in court. I have no intention of taking his money.


    ''Keep it safe. Make copies. Give one to your lawyer. Tell him you meant to send it sooner, but you didn''t think it was important.''


    ''Why are you putting yourself in so much danger?''


    ''I''m not in that much danger. He needs me alive. He''s just throwing a tantrum about it.''


    He looks like he wants to ask more questions, but I shoo him out the door. He nervously folds the page in half as he walks down the hallway, back to his own room.


    I close the door and lock it again. I leave the chair where it is, by the desk. If I can''t block the window, there''s no reason to barricade the door.


    We should have had that discussion as messages on that stupid little white board.


    Hopefully, the room isn''t bugged.


    Surely it isn''t.


    Right?


    Handover


    I go through the motions - work, home, work, home. I''ve been blocked from interacting with my own investigation. It''s fair, I guess. If they''re seen with me, they risk being targeted alongside me.


    Charles hasn''t bothered to call or text me since the threat. I suppose he can''t have much to text that wouldn''t be incriminating if I showed the message to a judge.


    I dream about being shot by well-dressed 1930''s mafia hitmen in glamorous nightclubs.


    I go on little ''dates'' with Jaq. He does his best to flirt. I do my best to play along.


    Every time I go out with Jaq, I expect Charles to call again, send another threat. Do some other stupid thing.


    He hasn''t sent me the paperwork with the things he intends to give me if I play along with him.


    I want to demand it.


    I get little updates almost every day about Frances'' worsening condition.


    I need that paperwork.


    I might not need it. Maybe the investigation is fine without it.


    I hate being out of the loop.


    I pour all of my energy into painting my sets. The throne is amazing. An elaborate, sparkling edifice to hubris.


    I''m not sure whose yet.


    Perhaps it''s mine.


    The choreographer visits every few days with a couple of cameras, checking how this or that flip or twirl will look at this or that angle.


    It''s done too soon.


    I''m not ready to hand it over.


    I''m not ready to have nothing to occupy myself with.


    I''m not ready to see Charles again. I needed more time to build up enough fake machismo to survive the encounter.


    Whether I like it or not, there he is: darkening the doorway to my warehouse.


    His warehouse, really; it was never mine. I deluded myself into believing it was mine.


    I have a few of my burlier friends on site, with the superficial excuse that I might need them to help move the larger props around. In truth, I''m dead scared.


    We stay to the side, watching him wander around, climbing risers, knocking on hanging flats. He seems pleased.


    Finally, the choreographer summons me.


    ''Can you set up the round table?''


    I nod, and the stage is cleared; unnecessary flats lift up while new flats are lowered. Elaborate chairs are collected from the wings. A button is pressed, and the central rounded riser elevates into a massive round table.


    There''s a gleeful cheer from Charles as he watches the stage transform from a castle exterior to interior.


    ''If you have a stagehand for every chair, the swap only takes about 6 seconds. You just need to be careful about staying outside the taped areas. You don''t want scenery dropping on your head.''


    ''Can you bring out the horse too?''


    The horse''s legs ''walk'' and the head bobs up and down rhythmically as the thing is wheeled across to centre stage.


    ''I didn''t put an engine in it, so you need someone behind it to make it move. The mechanism isn''t particularly complex. It could be motorised easily - it just doesn''t have a good way for the rider to steer, so you''re safer with a person propelling it.''


    Charles looks like a child on his birthday.


    I step off the stage and wait again.


    They seem to be arranging a time to start filming. Dates are loudly thrown around.


    I feel compelled by something entirely outside my own will to go and speak to him. To interrupt him and request the paperwork I''m owed. I hold myself in place.


    Finally, the huddle breaks apart, and I approach him alone.


    ''You seem pretty happy.''


    ''I didn''t think you could do anything like this!''


    I regard him coldly, my earlier fear forgotten.


    ''I didn''t have many opportunities to prove myself before this.''


    ''Come on, why are you so grumpy? You should be happy!''


    ''Then you''re officially satisfied with my work.''


    ''I am.''


    He turns and shouts to the room.


    ''I''m officially satisfied with Jojo''s work.''


    He turns back, still grinning.


    I could leave it be. I could walk away. I''d be safe.


    Safe.


    Frances is barely hanging on to life. The second she dies, he''ll find out I''m actually married to Jaq. Then -


    Safety is a temporary illusion, no matter what I do.


    If I come out and say it, will he snap?


    I''m pretty sure he''s willing to back up his threats with actions.


    He hasn''t needed to.


    If I ask... then will he need to?


    ''You owe me some paperwork.''


    ''Oh, you''re still on about that? I thought we''d come to an agreement.''


    ''You threatened to murder me. That''s not an agreement.''


    ''It was all in good fun.''


    How is he smiling?


    ''Threats aren''t ''good fun.'' I want my paperwork. You don''t want to give it to me because you don''t want me to have physical proof of what you''re planning to do - but if I don''t have that proof, how do I know you''ll give me what you''ve promised?''


    ''Aren''t you a smart girl?''


    I want to strangle him.


    He thinks - no - he''s absolutely certain he has all the cards here.


    ''You know, the time you spent stalling allowed the cooling-off period for my ''notice of intent to marry'' to expire. I can be legally married to him as early as tonight if I don''t get the paperwork you owe me. As far as Jaq''s inheritance is concerned, I might as well be his wife.''


    His expression shifts much faster than my fancy stage.


    ''You wanted my obedience, but you''ve been unwilling to trust me or put any of your own skin in the game. You forced me to do this. Give me the paperwork, or deal with the consequences of your actions.''


    I feel like I should be withering under the intensity of his rage.


    Somehow, I''m not.


    ''Enjoy your sets.''


    I wave to my crew.


    ''Time for us to go.''


    I make it outside before I start shaking.


    ''You okay?''


    Sal''s hand is on my arm.


    I shake my head.


    ''I need to go home right away. You should all go home too.''


    ''No celebration?''


    ''Not tonight.''


    They look disappointed... and unsettled.


    I feel unsettled.


    ''Actually, no, you can celebrate. Do celebrate. Make sure you talk about how glad you are you don''t have to deal with your bitch boss anymore, though. Say it loud, say it often.''


    He shakes his head.


    ''We can''t do that.''


    ''Do it. But, stay inside, away from windows.''


    He looks at me like I''ve lost my mind.


    I think I might have.


    That was an idiotic risk.


    When am I not taking idiotic risks?


    My lift arrives, cutting the conversation short.


    I watch them as we drive away, nauseated by my own bravado.


    When I get back to my room, I shut myself in the wardrobe. I can''t be shot if I can''t be seen.

 28. Hottest Celebrity Gossip

    A Morning


    I sit in the kitchen, directly in front of the stove. I dragged a chair here because it''s the furthest corner from the windows, and half hidden by a pillar.


    I dislike the shiny chrome coffee machine. It''s too loud, and it always makes the coffee too hot to drink.


    I nurse the mug in my hands, wishing the ice machine attached to the fridge could reliably and gently dispense a single cube of ice, not fire out 50 at once. I want a drinkable beverage. That doesn''t seem so much to ask.


    I hear the soft sound of someone approaching, and ready myself to leap out of the seat. I barely slept - I was too tense to relax - and I''m still on high alert. The best defensive weapon I have on hand is probably the mug of coffee.


    A head peers around the pillar - one of the staff.


    ''Don''t drink that!''


    I look at the black liquid in my cup.


    She hurries over to take it from me. I don''t want to give it up.


    ''Why?''


    ''I... uh.''


    She looks around, clearly frightened. She whispers;


    ''Poison. I couldn''t do it. I can''t do it.''


    Ah.


    ''He asked you to poison me?''


    ''You know?''


    I nod.


    ''He''s poisoned me before.''


    The statement did nothing to alleviate her fear.


    ''Did he threaten you with something if you didn''t poison me?''


    She nods.


    ''Do you have any of the poison still?''


    She takes a small plastic canister from her pocket. There''s a white powder in there.


    I think this might be even better than signed documents.


    ''I''m pretty sure I can keep him from hurting you, at least for now. I''m going to put my arm around you, and you''re going to help me to my room. You''ll stay in there with me and answer the door for me if anyone comes to check on me. We''re going to pretend I took the poison.''


    We return to my room together, leaving a zig-zagging trail of spilt coffee on the floor. Those carpets are probably ridiculously expensive, but I need my inebriation to look real.


    I sit on the floor in front of the wardrobe while she locks the door.


    ''Come here, sit with me.''


    She complies, eyeing the window. From down here we''ll be harder to see.


    ''I need you to tell me everything. Were you the only one he asked to poison me?''


    ''No - I didn''t poison the coffee, I don''t know if it even is. I just - they said it was the thing that you''d definitely drink, so it''d be the easiest option.''


    ''Jaq and Lionel drink coffee too.''


    I take out my phone, readying a text to warn them both not to eat or drink anything in the house.


    ''Oh, oh no, he said not to hurt Jaques, he said Jaques needed to be kept safe.''


    That sounds about right.


    If Jaq''s dead, then I think legally the entire estate goes to Isaac. None of her silly stipulations would matter any more.


    ''Show me the poison again.''


    I snap a photo of the canister in her hand.


    What do I say to make them act right?


    I tell Lionel to stay in his room and consume nothing. I''ve confirmed we''re under surveillance and in danger. He''ll be safe but he needs to wait for Jaq to get him.


    I tell Jaq I''ve been attacked and he needs to come to my room now.


    ''Jaq will be on his way as soon as he gets my message. I need you to answer the door and tell him I''m sick, and feign reluctance to let me in. Let him in, but try to delay him. Close the door after him. You want the others to think you''re trying to ensure I''m dead before he can get me to a hospital.''


    I tip the last of my coffee on the floor and lay down next to it as I send the photo of the canister to the Executioner along with a request for her to arrange a safe place for me to go and hide.


    ''Did he want you to contact him to let him know that you''d done what he asked?''


    She nods.


    ''Do it.''


    I feel the vibrations from Jaq''s footsteps as he barrels down the hallway to my door.


    ''Jo? Jo?! Jo, let me in!''


    The staff member opens the door and tries to tell him I''m too unwell to see him - he cuts her off by shoving her out of the way. She slams the door shut as he rounds the bed to see me on the floor.


    ''JO! I''m here! What''s wrong?!''


    He reaches down to lift me up, and I clamp my hand over his mouth, pulling him down closer. I whisper hurriedly;


    ''Jaq, shush, listen. We''re not safe here. If you fail, I will die. You need to go get Lionel, tell him loudly you need help carrying me to the car because you don''t trust ambulances. This lady will help us, ok?''


    He nods, his eyes wide. I release him, and he falters - I point to the door. He leaps across the bed and dashes away, shouting Lionel''s name. The sound is barely muffled when the door is shut again.


    ''What now?''


    ''Now, like I said, stall them. Force them to wait while you put shoes on my feet, direct them to pack me a hospital bag. See if you can get a bottle of water to bring - get in their way while they try to carry me out. Keep checking my pulse.''


    Jaq is back at the door, the force of his knocking shaking ornaments off the shelves nearby.


    ''Let us in!''


    She stops at the door a moment, counting to three before she opens it - it slams back against my chair with a splintering sound. I shut my eyes and try to remember how I felt last time, but I don''t remember anything. There''s just a void where those memories should be.


    Jaq and Lionel are tripping over themselves, both trying to lift me up. I''m sure I''ll be covered in bruises tomorrow.


    Friendly fire.


    ''Hey hey, stop, get her some shoes first! She''ll hurt herself if she has to walk barefoot!''


    My squeamish staffer''s objections are all but ignored as the two men drag me out of the room.


    ''The car! The car!''


    ''Why not an ambulance?''


    ''Fuck ambulances!''


    I''m dragged down the front steps to the garage, the poor staffer behind us, still trying to tell them to slow down.


    I''m laid in the back of a car - she says she''ll sit in the back with me and make sure I''m still breathing - they let her.


    Doors slam, the engine starts, and we''re off.


    ''I got your shoes,'' says the staffer, softly.


    A pair of shoes are placed on the seat by my stomach.


    I remain laying down and check my phone, hoping I''ve been sent the address for a safe place. Instead, I''ve been instructed to head to the Executioner''s office.


    ''Jaq, turn left at the lights.''


    ''Oh Jeez, Jo, I thought you were dead!''


    Lionel''s face is pale and covered in sweat.


    ''Sorry, I had to pretend they actually got me, or he''d make them try again.''


    ''He really tried to have you killed?''


    A tear lands on my forehead.


    ''I''m so sorry - I didn''t think he wanted to kill anyone - at first, I thought it was cute, he was Jaques'' best friend, trying to make sure his friend was okay, and he wasn''t being taken advantage of, and I just kept telling him stuff to reassure him, I think the others did too, but then he kept giving us stuff, and then he told us we''d been taking bribes for information and we had to do what he said or we''d go to prison, and he had Emily''s house ransacked, and then he wanted us to poison Jo...''


    She breaks down into sobs. I want to sit up properly so I can hug her, but I''m meant to be unconscious, if not a corpse.


    ''It''s okay, it''s okay, you didn''t kill me. I''m fine.''


    My attempt to reassure her only makes her cry harder.


    I try to write what she said, word for word, so I can send it to the Executioner. I''m still wearing my stupid ''personal safety'' system - but I need a computer to access the recordings. I want her to know everything as soon as it''s said. I can''t wait for computers.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    We don''t even need to stop at the gate to the underground car park beneath the building. The security guard opens it when he sees us. Somehow I feel safer when I hear the gate clang shut behind the car. There''s nothing at all stopping someone on foot climbing over the thing, or a car ramming through it.


    There''s nothing to stop him from bribing the security guard or sending someone in some other way.


    We circle down to a deeper level, past another guard and another gate. I feel safer again.


    I roll and pull myself up, opening the door. There she is. A stern angel standing in the harsh electric light.


    It''s hard to believe I ever saw her as a mere military Sergeant.


    ''You have the vial?''


    The staffer brings it to her - she holds out a plastic bag for it to be dropped into.


    ''Would you be willing to testify in court?''


    ''Yeah.''


    ''And you''re all safe?''


    I nod.


    ''Come inside.''


    Pitch in Prison: Expos¨¦


    Popular singer and beloved heartthrob Charles Pitch has been found guilty on a litany of charges including attempted murder, solicitation to murder, assault and battery. Witnesses close to Pitch described him as a man lacking impulse control; ''He was incapable of managing his own finances, and constantly on the verge of bankruptcy.'' His ongoing financial strife led him to attempt to seduce a childhood friend''s ailing mother, Frances Glarean (now deceased), with the intent to take her wealth and leave her family destitute.


    Four women testified to being ''intimidated'' by Pitch after he had seen them in proximity to Frances'' son, Jaques Glarean. Employees of the Glarean household said Pitch would frequently ask them about Jaques'' relationship status. One said, ''At first it seemed sweet, like he was looking out for his best friend. Then, things got bad.'' Pitch used both bribes and intimidation to maintain a network of spies within the Glarean household. One staff member said, ''It was easier to just tell him something small, something harmless, he''d leave you alone if you told him something.'' These actions were part of a campaign of control and isolation perpetrated by Pitch against the Glarean family, so they would be ''too preoccupied with (their) own problems to see what was happening until it was too late.'' Jaques said; ''It worked. I felt unloveable, incapable of keeping friends or getting a woman to look at me twice.''


    Jaques said ''I wasn''t sure what I was suspicious of, but I started being secretive with my relationships.'' This secrecy allowed him to meet his current wife, Joanne Glarean (then Joanne Knight). He said, ''I only told my family about Jo when my mother tried to set me up with someone else.'' He said, ''Even then, I wouldn''t let them meet her until I was forced to.'' The pair maintained their relationship for six months ''before Pitch found out''. According to Joanne, the intimidation started as soon as she was left alone ''for a moment'' with Pitch. Joanne said, ''At one point, he called me Jaq''s ''side ho'', and said Jaq was only dating me to hurt him.'' Jaques told the court the claim was ridiculous. ''I''m straight, I''ve always been straight, and I''m pretty sure I''ve only ever seen him with women. He said it to drive Jo away from me.''


    The verbal threats against Joanne ''didn''t last long'' as Pitch quickly ''switched gears to physical attacks.'' Video and audio footage shown to the court depicted an event one juror described as ''sick and depraved,'' in which Pitch dragged Joanne semi-conscious across a parking lot until he was fought off by Jaques'' stepbrother, Lionel Glarean.


    ''I was terrified,'' said Joanne, ''He had my house burgled, looking for blackmail material. He poisoned me. He assaulted me. I thought if I didn''t leave Jaq, he''d kill me.'' When asked why she didn''t take the footage to the police, she said ''I was too scared to try. I was sure he''d get out of it with no charges, and then he''d want revenge.''


    Jaques said; ''We were all so confused. Why would he do this to us? He was my best friend.'' He said, ''It came clear when I found a copy of my mother''s will.'' The will stipulated that, on Frances'' death, all her assets would be placed in a trust to be managed by Pitch for the benefit of her family - unless Jaques was married. In that case, the trustee became Jaques'' wife. According to legal experts consulted by the Manor Post, prosecuting dishonest trustees for inheritance fraud is often futile. ''If the trustee invests the fund''s assets and the investment fails to achieve a return, it is difficult to prove that they intended to damage the fund unless there''s a clear money trail that directly benefits the trustee. A competent accountant can hide the beneficiaries of these kinds of investments with ease.''


    Jaques said, ''Once I knew (Pitch) wanted to steal my inheritance, it turned into a game of managing him so he wouldn''t explode and hurt someone.'' Jaques said he was unconcerned with his own safety; ''He needed me alive.'' He said; ''All the risk was on my Mother and my fianc¨¦e. I didn''t know if (Pitch) was capable of murder. I didn''t want to risk it.''


    Joanne said, ''Jaq had me tell Pitch I was an actress he hired to get Frances to stop nagging him to marry. It worked, he backed off for a little bit.'' Pitch''s defence maintains that Jaques did hire Joanne to act as a ''fake wife,'' though they claim it was a move by Jaques to defraud his own mother. Jaques was able to produce a signed drawing with a note he had kept in his violin case ''since the day I first asked Joanne on a date.'' Jaques said, ''I kept it there because it gave me comfort.'' The court was able to verify the drawing''s age, and was described by an attorney for the prosecution as ''The cutest receipt I''ve ever seen.''


    While Pitch believed the couple''s ruse, it had unintended consequences. Pitch began to obsessively stalk Joanne. He harassed people who had wronged Joanne in the past. He was caught in possession of ''a collection of items stolen from (Joanne''s) garbage.'' He sent her extravagant gifts, which she said ''frightened me just as much as the threats did.'' Video captured by Joanne shows she was being followed in public by a private investigator found to be in Pitch''s employment.


    After Joanne repeatedly refused his advances, Pitch offered her a job building the set for his new music video. She said, ''He told me he''d make me famous. [...] I couldn''t even refuse, he''d already told all these reporters I''d agreed.''


    Counter to this, Pitch described Joanne to the court as a ''common slut,'' who was constantly flirting with men, including himself and Jaques'' stepbrother. The photographs he produced to prove his point overlapped with descriptions given by Joanne of photos used in Pitch''s ''attempted blackmail.'' Lionel said that they only spent time together in public ''because Jo was frightened to go out alone with Pitch around,'' and ''I stopped as soon as it was clear I''d become a pawn for Pitch''s games.''


    Frances was admitted to hospital in critical condition. According to Joanne, Frances ''begged us to move the wedding up and have it before she passed.'' Joanne said she thought Frances ''might have guessed what Pitch was up to.'' Jaques said, ''I wanted to marry Jo in my own time. If I did it right then, it''d put her at risk, but it would also protect my inheritance (...) I didn''t know what to do.'' He said, ''We had to hold the wedding ceremony in (Frances'') room so she could see it, but (Pitch) had people watching her.'' He said ''I couldn''t hold a fake ceremony, I couldn''t lie to my Mother like that.'' He said, ''We told (Pitch) our relationship was a lie, but it wasn''t. I didn''t mind lying to him.'' The couple hatched a convoluted plot to duplicate their wedding certificate so that they would be able to ''meekly hand over the copy'' to Pitch when he demanded it. According to Joanne; ''He said he wanted to destroy it himself.'' The real certificate was filed in secret by a friend of the couple. Joanne said, ''I couldn''t relax until I got the text saying it had been submitted successfully. I was worried he might have someone following my friend, too.''


    While the wedding meant Frances'' death would no longer leave Pitch in control of her fortune, Joanne''s life was at greater risk. Joanne said ''I was supposed to begin work on the music video, but I was petrified of being left alone. I was desperate.'' She bought a hidden body-cam with a live video feed so she could be monitored by a security team at all times. ''Even now, I''m scared to take it off.''


    The purchase was well-timed. ''Pitch somehow caught wind that Jaq knew about the will.'' One video clip depicts Pitch approaching Joanne at her workplace and intimidating her into getting into his car. She tries to placate him by reassuring him that she is ''doing everything (he) wanted.'' He only allows her to leave when she promises she will ''report everything'' Jaques says to her about the will from then on.


    Jaques said, ''After that, we had to stage events to make it look like Jo was reporting on me like he said.'' Jaques said, ''It was ridiculous, rehearsing scripts for dates so we could say the right things in front of (Pitch''s) cronies, and then Jo could report the same thing.'' He said, ''I didn''t care how stupid it was, I would have done anything to keep her safe.''


    Joanne said she ''had enough'' of the mind games. ''A few threats, some stalking, a little assault, that''s enough to put a normal person behind bars for 25 years, but when you have money like Pitch, charges don''t stick.'' She said, ''We needed hard evidence of his crimes.'' She said, ''I reached out to friends in the entertainment industry for advice, and instead discovered there were loads of people he hurt. Pitch is a menace.''


    These ''friends'' have since formed a separate, ongoing class-action suit against Pitch in relation to a growing number of accusations of sexual assault and rape.


    Joanne said, ''Knowing I wasn''t alone made me determined. He had to be stopped. He couldn''t be allowed to continue.'' She said, ''All we had been doing up to that point was capitulation. We''d been letting him walk over us, like he owned us. I was mad.''


    Joanne said that the next time she met with Pitch to report on Jaques'' activities, ''I told Pitch I knew he was a liar. I said that Jaq showed me the will, and offered to marry me. I said I was considering it.'' She said that, because she had a group of friends nearby to come to her rescue if Pitch attacked her, she felt safe telling him ''something close to the truth.'' She said, ''Pitch was furious. He grabbed me and shook me.'' She said, ''He demanded to know what cut I''d get of the estate - (Jaques and I) hadn''t ever discussed money, I didn''t even know how much the estate was worth, but I was too scared not to answer, so I said a quarter.'' His counteroffer was one-third of the estate. Joanne accepted the deal and demanded the agreement in writing. She said, ''I didn''t mean to negotiate with him. I don''t know why I did it. It just came out.'' When Pitch''s defence attempted to describe this incident as ''entrapment,'' the judge said ''It''s difficult to claim entrapment when the defendant held the victim''s arms hard enough to leave distinct hand-shaped bruises and shook her until she agreed to negotiate.'' The following day, Joanne received ''a death threat by bike messenger.''


    In a feat described by one witness as ''super-human,'' Joanne completed construction on the music video sets in record time. She said, ''I couldn''t stop working. If I took even a moment''s break all I could think about was how I might be murdered any second.'' On the day of the handover, Joanne said ''Pitch was too happy about everything, he was grinning. I thought he''d quibble about the colours, or ask for changes, but he just said it was great. It made me anxious.'' One of the workmen who had stayed to help with the handover said, ''Jo seemed scared. She told us if we were going out to celebrate the end of the job, we should stay away from windows. She even told us to talk shit about her loudly.''


    Unnamed members of the Glarean household''s staff said that Pitch contacted them that night. One said ''He gave us this powder and told us to put it in Joanne''s food. He said if we didn''t, we''d be sorry. I didn''t want to kill her, but I was scared for my life, and my children.'' Chemical analysis performed on the vials of powder given to the staff members matched the drug used in Pitch''s earlier attack on Joanne, but at a much higher dose. If administered, the dose would have been lethal.


    Joanne said, ''I was getting my morning coffee, and one of the cleaners came and took it from me. She said Pitch wanted me dead.'' Joanne said, ''We ran and hid in my room until Jaq came to get us. We pretended we were driving to the hospital. Instead, I went into hiding.''


    Now that the case is over, Joanne says she''s still scared to go out in public. Message boards and other online communities have sprung up under the banner of ''Jojo Hunters.'' Sightings of Joanne, or women who look like Joanne are posted, allowing Pitch''s supporters to harass her wherever she goes. Joanne says, ''I just want to disappear.''


    Aftermath


    I pull away as Jaq tries to take my hands in his.


    ''No, Jaq, I''m not staying.''


    ''But why? It''s all over now. You''re my wife. I''ll keep you safe.''


    I grit my teeth in exasperation. It feels like he believes the story we sold in court. He thinks he''s a hero.


    ''If I stay with you, I can never go out alone again. That''s not living.''


    ''We have a security team - you can keep them with you.''


    ''Do you not understand the meaning of ''alone''?''


    He pauses, thinking. It''s no use. There are no solutions that he can offer me that will make me stay.


    ''Look, I''ll stay in contact with you, but I''m not staying in the country, and you can''t come with me.''


    The decision was daunting when I made it, but it was really the only option that would return my anonymity. It''s so tiring defending a decision that is already overwhelming.


    ''What if-''


    ''No, Jaq! No. I''m not staying.''


    ''Then why did you marry me?''


    I roll my eyes.


    ''You hired me to protect your inheritance. It was necessary.''


    I''ve already told him this a thousand times. He looks like a kicked puppy every time I say it. It hurts to look at him.


    The only way I can think of to stop his whining is to offer him false hope - to suggest that if he shuts up about it, I might reconsider in a few months. Then I have to deal with him in a few months when he starts whining again.


    My next best option is to just disappear.


    I can''t quite yet - we still haven''t divorced. I can''t divorce him until the media drops the story... and I suspect he won''t make it easy for me to leave him quietly.


    Marriage is such bullshit.


    False hope it is.


    ''How about this. You let me go without complaint, and you spend the next... I guess, year or so, trying to make yourself a better person. When people stop hunting me for ruining their rapist boy-crush''s career, I''ll be able to return. I''ll decide how I feel about staying with you then.''


    There he goes. The light of hope is practically radiating out of him. If he lived in a lighthouse, ships would never crash into rocks.


    I''m a monster, but I don''t have much choice. It''s this, or I endure his emotional leech act forever.


    I grasp the handle of my suitcase. He finally steps out of the way.


    ''Catch you later.''


    I walk away, pointedly ignoring anything he says. I don''t want to hear any more of it. I just want to get on a plane and sleep until I land somewhere far away.


    I still haven''t decided if I''m getting plastic surgery. I hope changing my hair and my look will be enough.


    I''m looking forward to being a nobody again.