The Nature of Cruelty Page 7

  And I hate her for it.

  Part Two

  Cruelty Is Hard to Forgive

  Five

  I manage to spend the rest of the evening re-reading a few chapters of the Iliad in my room, in effect avoiding any further encounters with Robert. Sasha goes out to see one of her “celebrity gossip informants” or whatever you’d call them, and doesn’t get back until late.

  The next morning I get ready for my first day at work. My shift starts at ten, so again I manage to bypass seeing Robert, who leaves for work at seven-thirty. I make sure I have my tube map and the Oyster card I ordered online safely in my bag before I leave, as well as my packed lunch and my insulin.

  I memorise my route as I walk toward the Tube station. I have to get the northern line to Kings Cross and then the Piccadilly line to Knightsbridge. The station is so stressful when I get there, full of people hurriedly dashing this way and that. It’s definitely a new experience for me, since I’m used to the easy-going country life. The last time I was here Sasha drove me everywhere, so there was no need for me to take the Tube. At one point I slow down a bit, trying to figure out if I’m heading towards the correct platform, and a woman knocks harshly by me, muttering her annoyance under her breath.

  After one more little panic when I think I might really be lost, I finally make it safely to Baccino’s by five to ten. Sasha told me that I’d have to wear a black pencil skirt, black ballet flats, and a white blouse as my uniform, so I bought several sets of the same outfit last week before I left. I smooth down my skirt and open the door, which is stylishly made entirely out of glass. In fact, the whole front of the restaurant is just one big glass window. There are also tables for dining outside.

  Alistair is the first person I see. I’m coming to realise that he’s a bit of an unusual character, especially when he introduces me to a girl with short, black hair and a nose ring called Danni, but instead of speaking the introduction, he sings it. Danni tells me he sings everything when he’s in a good mood. I tell her it must make for an interesting work environment. She’s got this great East London accent and a talkative personality, and man, does she know her cheeses and her wines.

  After an hour or two I’ve absorbed as many varieties of cheese as I can possibly fit inside my brain: fiore sardo (light cheese with a dark skin), caprino (all white), mountain gorgonzola (pale with blue bits), parmigiano reggiano (pale and crumbly), bosina rabiola (light with a white exterior), and on and on it goes.

  I try to remember which ones are which, but some of them are so similar-looking that I don’t know if I’ll ever get the hang of it. It’s a good thing I worked as a waitress for a while during my first few years of college, so everything else comes fairly naturally.

  “You’ll get it with practice,” Danni reassures me (about the cheeses). “You can go take a quick break before things get busy.”

  I pop to the bathroom and then the staff lounge, where I have a bite to eat before returning to the floor. The place has filled up substantially now and Alistair’s standing by the door, welcoming in a group of businessmen. That’s when my eyes are drawn to the window, where I see Robert strolling by. He’s wearing a shirt and black sunglasses, and has his suit jacket folded over his arm. A small rush of nerves goes through me when I see that his dad’s with him.

  As I’m clearing and resetting one of the tables, the two of them make their way inside the restaurant. It’s been a couple of years since I last met Alan, yet he remains one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever come across. He reminds me a little of Hugh Grant. Well, his character as Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones would probably be more accurate. Total charmer. Total wanker. Soul as black as tar.

  Alistair greets them both enthusiastically and ushers them to a table for two. Once he’s seated, Robert’s eyes seek me out, and I immediately busy myself and look away. The next thing I know someone’s touching my arm. For a second I think it might be Robert, but when I turn around I find it’s Alistair.

  “Rob and Alan asked for you,” he says with a smile. “You can take their table.”

  I smile back, while on the inside I’m giving him a big, sarcastic, Oh, wonderful!

  “Lana Sweeney,” Alan announces when I approach their table with two menus and a jug of water. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. You used to be nothing but a skinny little thing. How a couple of years can work their wonders, eh?”

  “Indeed. It’s good to see you Alan,” I reply, doing my best to be polite.

  “Ah, do you hear that son?” he says, leaning across the table to tap Robert on the arm. “Whenever I hear an Irish voice, I’ll forever be reminded of your mother. She was quite the looker in her day.”

  I find it comical how differently Liz and Alan talk about one another. Alan speaks of Liz with this kind of wistful nostalgia, while Liz speaks of Alan with nothing but venom and distaste. I guess catching your husband in bed with another woman will do that.

  “Please, Dad, I don’t want to think of my mother as being a looker. It feels wrong.”

  Alan laughs. “Well, then, aren’t you lucky I didn’t call her a hoo –”

  “Dad!” Robert exclaims, wide-eyed.

  “Touchy, touchy,” says Alan with a crooked grin. “Speaking of mothers, how is Fiona doing these days, Lana? Is she still parading around in that policewoman’s uniform?”

  I give him a funny look. “Um, yes, since she is a policewoman and all.”

  Alan continues to grin while glancing down to peruse the menu. “And there was me thinking she had a fetish,” he mutters in amusement.

  Robert coughs on his glass of water. Sometimes I wonder if he really is like Alan or if he’s just trying his hardest to emulate him. If that’s the case, then he’s certainly got a skewed view of the kind of qualities worthy of being emulated. But people are often blind when it comes to their parents. I wonder if maybe there’s a decent person in Robert — underneath all the bravado, that is.

  “So what can I get the two of you?” I ask, keeping my expression neutral to show that jokes about my mother’s profession aren’t appreciated.

  “I’ll have the eggplant and parmesan, and to drink we’ll take two glasses of the house red,” says Alan, just before his phone starts ringing. He pulls it from his pocket and dives into what I can only describe as incomprehensible “business talk.”

  I look to Robert, waiting for his order. He flicks the edge of the menu and smiles up at me. “What would you recommend?”

  “I’ve been here three hours. I haven’t yet had the chance to sample anything, and you know it.”

  He tuts and shakes his head. “Well, that’s just not good enough. I like a waitress who can advise me on the menu. I’ll have to make a complaint to Alistair.”

  I sigh. “Quit messing around and just order, Rob. You said you come here all the time. You must know the menu like the back of your hand by now.”

  “A-ha, but it’s not my job to know it. It’s yours.”

  Danni brushes past me, making her way to one of her tables. “You okay, Lana?” she asks.

  I give her a cheery grin and nod, and she continues on her way. When I look back at Robert, I frown at him. “This is my first day. Please don’t be difficult,” I whisper.

  Surprisingly, his face softens, and he reaches out to grab my wrist. His eyelids lower as he pulls me down to him. “I’m still thinking about that lace you had on yesterday,” he whispers in my ear, and I jerk away immediately.

  Completely ignoring what he just said, I ask, “So have you made your mind up about what you want?”

  He bites his bottom lip. “Sure, just give me the same as Dad’s having.”

  Relieved he’s finally ordered, I scribble it down and turn to leave.

  “Oh, and Lana,” says Robert, just before I’ve gotten away.

  I turn back. “What?”

  “I really like you in that skirt. It’s very…tight.” His eyes linger on my hips.

  Taking a deep breath, I hold back from
making any kind of response and go to put in their order. Returning to their table with two glasses of wine, I find that Alan’s finished up with his business call.

  “I hear you’re staying with my Sasha,” he says. “How are you liking the house?”

  “It’s lovely. We had a little barbecue in the back garden yesterday,” I tell him, placing the glasses down on the table.

  “Delightful,” he replies, picking up the wine glass and taking a sip. “Oh, and before I forget, I’m throwing a party for my fiftieth at The Dorchester in a fortnight’s time. You’re welcome to come along and bring a date.”

  “I’d love to come. Thanks for inviting me,” I tell him, surprised by the invite and also wondering how on earth I’ll find a date for it. I’m not very in the know about London hotels, but The Dorchester sounds pretty fancy.

  “You don’t have to bring a date,” Robert interrupts sharply. “Sasha and I will be attending, so you can come in the limo with us.”

  I nod. “Sounds good. I don’t know anyone in London to bring with me anyway. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your food.”

  Wow. What was that about? Does Robert actually care about me bringing a date, or was that just a casual remark? A couple of minutes later their food is ready, and I bring it over to the table. Both father and son are having a detailed work conversation, so I put their plates down in front of them without interrupting. After that I get really busy, running around helping Danni attend to the lunch crowd. I only have another hour and a half left of my shift, since I’m part time, yet I’m hoping it goes by quickly. Interacting with Robert always takes the energy out of me.

  I only have to return to their table once more when they ask for the cheque. Alan is already slipping on his suit jacket with his mobile phone glued to his ear. He waves goodbye to Alistair and walks out the door, while Robert stays to settle the bill. I expect him to leave the money on the table, but he doesn’t. He walks right up to where I’m shelving glasses at the bar and saunters around it to stand in front of me. “Here you go,” he says, smiling and placing his credit card on the counter.

  “Oh, right,” I say, retrieving the scanner and swiping his card through it. He stands close to me all the while, practically hovering over me.

  I move my shoulders uncomfortably. “Do you have to stand so close?”

  His mouth twitches. “Yes.”

  “Here, you need to put in your PIN,” I say, handing him the scanner.

  He takes it from me, brushing my hand with his fingers, and taps in the numbers. I take it back and let the receipt print out. Robert pulls his wallet from his pocket, lifting out a fifty-pound note. He moves even closer now, and before I know it, he’s slipping it inside the pocket of my skirt.

  “That’s way too much,” I say, as he takes his time pulling his fingers back out. They scorch my skin through the material.

  “No, it’s not,” he answers, but before I have the chance to return it to him, he’s walking away from me and ducking out the door of the restaurant. Not in all my days waitressing have I ever gotten a tip that big. Oh, how I long to know what Robert is playing at.

  The remainder of my shift flies by. I get the Tube back to the house and lie down on the couch in the living room to watch some TV.

  I’m eating a chicken salad for dinner at around five-thirty when the front door opens and shuts. Knowing that Sasha doesn’t get home from work until at least seven, I presume it’s Robert. I momentarily regret being in an old T-shirt and yoga pants, but then I scold my subconscious for perpetually wanting to impress him. My subconscious is a shallow bitch.

  I have my feet up on the couch, my salad bowl in my lap, and “Come Dine with Me” playing on Channel 4. I hear Robert’s keys jingling just before he steps into the room and takes his time surveying me.

  “Well, you’ve certainly made yourself at home,” he says jovially, throwing his suit jacket down onto an armchair and undoing the second button on his shirt.

  However, instead of sitting down on said armchair, he pushes my feet out of the way and sits on the couch with me.

  “Sasha does that, too. I never understood it,” he remarks, eyeing my salad.

  “What?” I ask, munching on some lettuce leaves.

  “Watches food shows while she’s eating.”

  I grin. “Yep. That’s one of our favourite things to do. It’s no fun watching food on TV if you’re sitting there, starving.”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it kind of makes sense,” he replies, leaning in to steal a crouton out of my bowl and pop it in his mouth.

  “Hey! Go make your own dinner,” I protest, shifting the bowl out of his reach.

  He chuckles. “So how did you like your first day?”

  “It was good. Other than this one customer being particularly difficult and then randomly giving me a fifty-pound tip out of nowhere,” I say, eyeing him curiously.

  That gets a smirk out of him. “How very strange. Why don’t you just return it if it makes you feel uncomfortable?”

  “No chance. I’m keeping it as compensation for all the years I had to suffer you calling me names as a teenager.”

  “Lana…” he starts, but trails off, his eyes on my feet. “I told you I was sorry for being a dickhead back then.”

  “You’re still a bit of a dickhead,” I interject.

  “Oh, yeah, and how did you come to that conclusion?” He shifts closer, and I move my feet before they touch his thigh.

  “Well, leaving out what you did yesterday in the back garden, you also recently cheated on your girlfriend with a married woman. If that’s not dickhead behaviour, then I don’t know what is.”

  “Ah, but you don’t know the whole story there, Lana. Kara had been cheating on me for months with Gary, so why shouldn’t I have given her a taste of her own medicine?”

  I let out a small gasp. “She had? But I thought she’d only just met him.”

  He shakes his head and folds his arms. “Nope. She still thinks I don’t know. A friend of a friend told me what she’d been up to. Since there had been so much infidelity in our relationship already, I wasn’t too pushed about confronting her.”

  “Why were you even together if you couldn’t be faithful to one another?”

  Shrugging, Robert answers, “The sex was pretty good.”

  Finished with my salad, I place the bowl down on the coffee table. “I don’t think I could ever be with someone if they cheated on me. Even if it was the best sex in the whole wide world.”

  He briefly trails a finger down my calf. “In that case, you clearly haven’t had very good sex.” He pauses then, considering, and whispers, “Shall I show you what all the fuss is about?”

  Little does he know that I haven’t had any sex at all: good, bad, or mediocre. But no way will he ever be finding out about that. Yep, a twenty-two-year-old virgin is a bit of a pathetic thing to be. Sasha always tells me not to worry about it, that in reality sex is eighty-percent hype, nineteen-percent disappointment, and one-percent thrill. Still, I’d like to give it a try at some point. You know, to pass the time on a slow Saturday if nothing else.

  It’s more a fear thing with me, rather than a lack of opportunity. I guess I have my mother to thank for that. I know she meant well, but hearing about the dangers of being sexually assaulted day in and day out eventually did something to my brain. When a situation that could lead to sex arises, I become the human embodiment of anxiety and run away like a scared little nun. Add to that the fact that my illness and hospital appointments meant I never really had time for boys growing up, and it all makes for one lifelong dry spell.

  I once wondered if it’s an actual thing, to be afraid of losing one’s virginity.

  It is.

  I Googled it.

  It’s called primeisodophobia.

  I still haven’t managed to get my tongue around that one. Or my fearful vagina.

  I study the television, where a woman is serving the guests at her dinner party wearing a Betty Bo
op costume. “Don’t do that,” I say to him quietly.

  “Do what?”

  “Pretend to flirt with me.”

  “Who says I’m pretending?”

  “Pretending or not, just stop it, okay?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he swears, and then he’s leaning over me, his hands braced on either side of my head. I think I start to hyperventilate. Looking me directly in the eye, he says, “I want you to forget about how I’ve treated you in the past. It was meaningless bullshit. I was simply acting like the teenage shithead that I was at the time. You don’t have to wear it like a never-ending crown of suffering on your head.”

  “Why? Does it make you feel guilty when I remind you of all the things you did?”

  “Of course it does!” he exclaims. “Nobody wants to be the guy who bullied the innocent little girl next door.”

  “And how come you didn’t feel guilty when you were doing it then?”

  Well, this is new. I never realised how powerful it could feel to be the calm one and have Robert be the one showing his emotions.

  He pulls back, running a hand through his hair. “Because…because sometimes the only way I can feel anything is when I get a reaction out of others, and pain is the easiest emotion to provoke.”

  He looks a little surprised himself that he actually just said that.

  “That’s the answer of a serial killer in the making, Robert,” I tell him with pleasure.

  “It didn’t come out the way I meant it to,” he explains.

  I smirk. “Oh, of course not.”

  When he realises that I’m messing with him, he grins. “You’re being mean,” he tells me, peculiarly delighted. His eyes stray to my lips and stay there.

  “I’m only returning all the meanness you’ve bestowed on me over the years.”

  Suddenly, his expression turns serious. He reaches up and softly takes hold of my chin before swiping his thumb over my lower lip. I instantly regret not getting out from under him sooner, because now I’m frozen solid.