Autobiography

They were watching The Birds when Robert returned. She had been too agitated to pay attention to any of it so far, but she’d seen it before.

As Robert entered the sitting room, Bill slung an arm around Margaux’s shoulders, as if to make a point. Robert scowled. Margaux looked down at her hands and wished she could turn invisible.

“Food’s on the table.”

“Yes. Thank you, Robert.”

“I’ll be in the bath, if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.”

He turned and left. A few moments later, the bathroom door opened and slammed shut. Bill picked up the remote control and paused the video.

He lowered his voice to a jovial, conspiratorial whisper. “Time for another glass, I think.” The wine glugged lazily out of the bottle, speckling the insides of the glass with minute crimson drops. “Stay here. I’ll get your food.”

“…Thanks.”

After he’d disappeared down the hallway, Margaux let out a deep breath. She took a sip of her wine and listened to Bill moving around in the kitchen.

The kitchen.

The fridge.

The phone.

The creep of nauseous anxiety began at the back of her throat. What if she hadn’t put the phone back in the right position? Would he notice? It was very quiet in there all of a sudden. She could imagine him standing there, looking back down the hallway, wondering if it was her that had moved it. Then he’d boot the laptop and check the camera footage. He’d see her trying to switch the phone on — he’d be relieved that it hadn’t worked, but no less angry. Then she’d hear footsteps down the hall, slow and measured.

The rattle of the cutlery drawer as it slammed snapped her out of it. He was coming back. Margaux downed half of her remaining wine in an effort to calm her nerves.

“Everything alright?” Bill walked in holding two waxed paper containers with forks stuck in them. He didn’t seem angry. “Are you more inclined towards chicken or prawns?”

A wave of relief broke over her. He couldn’t have noticed. He couldn’t have.

“I don’t really mind.”

“You must have a preference.”

“Not especially. But…”

“What?”

“I was wondering if you’d let me use that en-suite bathroom… since Rob is using the other one.”

He stared at her. Silent. Thinking.

“Sure. Come on.”

That had been a little easier than she was expecting. Margaux got up and followed Bill out into the hall. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the middle door.

She’d half expected the locked room to be filled with some kind of criminal equipment (whatever that might be, she hadn’t really thought it through that far), but what she saw when the door opened was almost disappointingly pedestrian: a double bed, sheets stretched tight over the mattress with perfect hospital corners, half-covered by the afghan blanket he’d put over her the night she’d slept on the sofa. There was a wooden chair in the corner of the room, with a black kit bag under it. A pile of clothes was neatly folded on the seat.

“It’s through there.” Bill closed the door behind her as she walked in, revealing another door in the adjoining wall. Margaux nodded and went through, into a tiny room with a toilet and a sink, both the colour of oxidised avocado.

When she came out, shaking water from her fingertips, he was sitting on the bed.

“Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t move. He just sat there with his elbows on his knees. Watching her. Margaux cleared her throat nervously. After a moment, she started towards the door.

“Margaux… come here.”

She turned back and looked at him, but didn’t move.

“Come here.”

She stepped towards him, and he sat upright. His knees stayed wide. Bill beckoned her towards him until she was standing between his feet. He put one hand on her hip, and she flinched. He didn’t react, didn’t speak — Bill stared at Margaux, barely having to look up at her, so dramatic was their difference in height.

“I, um…” She looked down at her hands. That was a mistake — she just found herself looking down at the crotch of Bill’s jeans. She averted her gaze to the window, fogged with condensation. The hand moved up to her waist, curling around the sudden inward curve, and she felt panic start to gnaw at her belly. “Your food will be getting cold.”

Bill exhaled sharply and frowned. His hand dropped, and he stood before she had time to step back. Margaux collided with his chest, and he grasped her arm. “Let’s go, then.”

*

There was a tension in the silence as they sat down and Bill picked up the remote. Margaux drew away to the far end of the sofa.

He hit play, and the tape made a strained whirring sound before the screen sprang back into life.

“Margaux, I thought we agreed that you were going to be a little friendlier.”

She watched him sit back. “I have been. I’ve done everything you’ve asked, haven’t I?”

“There are things I shouldn’t still have to ask you to do.”

“I don’t…” She could feel the heat rising in her face, the gnawing panic returning and building.

“No matter how many times I tell you to sit next to me, you still sit all the way over there. Can you understand how much that frustrates me? To tell you the same thing, over and over again?” Margaux couldn’t summon a response. For a moment she was completely overwhelmed by relief.

“I’m sorry. I—“ It was almost a struggle not to laugh. She felt as though she’d managed to cheat the system somehow. “I’ll move.”

“Good.”

She moved to sit next to him, and he put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him.

“I want you to be at least this close next time.”

“Alright…” She sat dumbfounded. At least? How much closer could she possibly be? The smell of him was distracting — all masculine heat and hand soap and cologne.

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“Which one?”

“Stop stalling. Either one.”

She lifted her left hand from her thigh, and he took it in his. His hands were so much bigger, she reflected, trying not to seem as though she was looking. They were nice hands — long-fingered, elegant. Musician’s hands. She wondered if he could play any instruments. It would almost be a waste if he didn’t.

He held her index finger and flexed it a little.

“…I could break your finger right now. There’s nothing you could do to stop me.” His tone was thoughtful, as though he were speaking to himself more than her.

She turned her head to look up at him, trying to keep a calm exterior. “Will you?”

He was silent for a long time, his brow furrowed. He looked almost confused. “No. I don’t think I want to.”

“Well… that’s good.”

He was moving his fingers over hers, turning her hand this way and that, as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“I don’t know about that. I feel as though I ought to do something else to you instead.”

“Why do you have to do anything to me?” she murmured, fighting to stop herself from shaking. He looked at her at last.

“Because that’s how this works, Margaux.”

“But… what did I do?”

“Don’t make yourself pathetic. It makes me want to hurt you more.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.” She looked down at their hands.

The film had ended without either of them noticing. When Margaux looked up at the screen, the credits were rolling.

“Eat your dinner, Margaux.” He sat forward, pushing her hand away from him as though it had been her that put it there, and picked up one of the waxed paper containers.

He switched the channel over to television, and Margaux picked up the remaining container. She ate her cold food in a confused silence.