Page 35 of Darling
They ignore that.
“Can you bring that over here, Gael?” asks Leo, pointing at the footstool. I’m lowered into the armchair as though I’m made of fine china, my legs propped up on the footstool. Mrs Kennedy appears with a cup of tea, which she sets on the table next to me. Gael opens a window, Leo fusses with the back of the chair, propping a cushion between my lower back and it. When I’m sat, they stare down at me anxiously.
I stand. “Alright, well, I’m going to have a nice long shower and then a nap, if that’s alright with everyone.” I turn to lift the teacup, taking a long sip from it. “Perfect, Grace, thank you.”
Mrs Kennedy beams. Leo looks ready to take flight. Gael stares, concernedly.
“Stand down, all of you.”
“What if you need something?”
“Gosh, I don’t know, Leo. Maybe have another heart attack.”
He scowls. “That’s not funny, Dad.”
“No, you’re right, it isn’t. But it’s not going to happen.” I reach out and settle a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m so glad you’re here, son. Really. And tomorrow I’ll put you to work if that’s what you want, but right now, I just need a hot shower and a good sleep on a mattress that isn’t rubber-coated.” I head for the door with my tea, stopping to turn back to them. “Gael, maybe you can show Leo around? He’s never been to Washington before.”
“Happy to, sir.”
“Perfect. Well, I’ll see you all at dinner, then. I’d love chicken pie, Grace.”
“Then chicken pie you got, sir.”
“Wonderful.” I exit the living room, leaving all three of them staring after me.
Twelve
Asher
“You need this,” Amata says. When I turn, she’s holding up a terrifying ceramic clown jar. His hat is the lid. “It’s a cookie jar, I think, but you can keep your paintbrushes in it. Isn’t it vile?”
It is vile. I do need it. I gesture for her to put it in the basket.
I hadn’t particularly been in the mood for thrifting today, honestly, but it’s either that or wait at home for Christian to call. Which I’ve been doing a lot lately, and I’m kinda sick of it. Also, with his son in town and the small matter of sex off the table, I’m not sure how or why he even would. I’ve been mulling over our last conversation, too, and about how I’d said I wasn’t sure what I wanted, and how the fact that he was still in love with his dead wife wasn’t really an issue for me. And I realise that I’d lied.
Idoknow what I want. I want all the things I told him I do: to be pounded regularly by him and for him not to ask me to give up porn. But there is something else I want, too, something I’ve never told anyone—not even Am.
I want a home. A family.
I don’t mean like kids and stuff, though I’m not against that in theory. But I want somewhere to belong; I want to have a home and be part of a family. A family that I don’t need tolabour or pray or be pure in order to be accepted into. I feel like unconditional love is something everyone deserves to have, and I want it. Anyway, obviously I couldn’t say that to Christian because what the fuck would he be able to do about it. The guy is scared shitless to even admit he wants to have sex with someone like me. I don’t think it’s about me specifically; I think he’s probably been like this since his wife died. Buttoned-up and terrified and ashamed of his own wants and desires. The fact that he has a son, a dead wife, and a job in politics only makes everything harder for him. I get it. I just wanna help him understand that he deserves to be happy, too.
“Let’s go look at the clothes,” Am says when we reach the end of the ceramic aisle. I trawl after her, half distracted as I check my phone again. There are a couple of messages on my socials from creators I’ve been wanting to work with for a while, which, for some reason, I’ve ignored. I don’t really feel like committing to anything right now, but I really can’t afford not to either.
I don’t think I’m reluctant because of Christian’s presence in my life, and more that I’m worried he might need me. Though he has a whole house of staff to help him with that, and a son. I’m the last person he’d need if he got sick again.
“Your heart’s not in this,” Amata says accusatorily. “There’s vintage Westwood right there, and you barely even glanced at it.”
My head snaps up and goes to where she’s pointing. It’snotvintage Westwood.
“Lying bitch.”
She cackles. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t lying about your heart not being in it.” She comes toward me. “I thought he was fine? You didn’t kill him, so what’s the big deal?”
I glare at her heartlessness.
She sighs and slings an arm around me. “Let’s go get somealcohol and talk about it, then.”
“It’s 11am.”