CHAPTER 9: QUEEN OF HEARTS
"Well, I've really made a thorough mess of it this time, haven't I, Sheep?"
"Baaaaaah."
"Oh, shut up, you're one to judge," Brigid shot back, "you're eating a towel, for God's sake."
The sheep made no reply, merely gazing up at her with doleful eyes as it munched thoughtfully on a dishtowel.
"Save some of that for me, will you?" she told it, "I think I've just about destroyed all the edible items in the house. That towel might be my last source of sustenance."
The sheep blinked and swallowed the remainder of the towel in one gulp.
"Damn you, filthy sadist," Brigid swore.
"Filthy sadist, now, am I, love?" came a voice from behind. Brigid jumped about six inches and spun unsteadily. James stood in the doorway of the kitchen and surveyed the scene. It wasn't pretty.
"I – I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow –" Brigid stammered.
"Mm, yes, sorry, must have gotten my days mixed up," he said. "Or did I? Maybe I wanted to catch you in the act. So to speak."
"The act of what?"
"Who were you talking to?"
"When?"
"Just now. The filthy sadist."
"You're a filthy sadist."
"I won't argue with you there, love."
Sheep chose that moment to emerge from behind the counter, emitting a loud, angry bleat. It was still hungry, apparently.
For once, James was at a complete loss for words. He held his hands out in dismay.
"It snowed," Brigid explained.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"She looked cold out there."
"It's a sheep. It's got a permanent wool coat."
"And—"
"And?"
"And maybe I got a bit lonely," Brigid finished in a small voice.
"What, going soft on me now, are you, McNamara?"
Brigid frowned.
"Oh, come on, I'm just messing," he said with a grin.
"Well, I'm not. I didn't exactly choose this, you know."
"And you weren't forced, either. Don't bullshit me, Brigid. You don't want anything to do with the world out there. I gave you exactly what you needed."
"Wow, thanks."
"Alright, know what? I think someone needs a drink."
Brigid's eyes lit up.
"Thought that'd get your attention. First, though, we've got this mess to clear up," he said, waving his hand to indicate the general kitchen area, which looked as though it had been struck by a food tornado.
"Do we have to?"
"Yes, if we leave this here, it will morph into a sentient being and devour us all. What exactly were you trying to accomplish, anyway?"
"Um, dinner."
"What were you eating before this?"
"I've been pecking at that breakfast you made."
"Brigid, that was eight days ago."
"Right."
"Jesus – have you burnt part of the wallpaper off over here?"
"It was ugly anyway."
"Is there any food at all left in this house?"
"There's soup," Brigid grinned. "And cigarettes."
It was hours before they were done, and the sun had begun to set in earnest. At James's insistence, Sheep had been removed from the premises; at Brigid's insistence, Sebastian had been dispatched to make sure she was somewhere safe and warm.
"Looks like it's going to snow again soon," Brigid said, peering up at the purpling sky. "Think Sebastian will be back before it does?"
"Oh, I should hope," said James absentmindedly. "Otherwise we'll be stuck here. Helicopter won't fly in the snow."
"Hmm, can't imagine you'd enjoy that. After this can, we're totally out of soup. Then we're just down to cigarettes, and I'm not sharing those. You'll have to starve."
"Excuse me, who said anything about sharing? Everything here is mine. I'll take what I want."
"So will I, thank you," she said, deftly slipping the bottle of whisky from James's hand as he passed by her.
"Naughty."
"Thirsty. What's the occasion, anyway? I thought this was a banned substance."
"It's a reward."
"What am I, a dog?"
"Ok, a present, if you like."
"For what?"
"For another story well-written."
"Wow, you must've really liked it if it's earned me a whisky."
"I did. It was unexpected. Very sexy."
Brigid burst out laughing.
"What?" James demanded.
"It's just – sorry – people don't normally describe literature as sexy."
"I do."
"Well, then."
"Well, then."
"Here's to literature and sex," she said, lifting up her glass with a grin.
"To literature and sex," he agreed, clinking his glass against hers.
Three drinks later, they were sprawled on separate couches in the library, smoking and arguing over the Beatles.
"I can't believe we're having this discussion right now. I feel like I'm fourteen again," Brigid insisted.
"Why?" James was upside down with his legs draped over the back of the couch and his hair brushing the floor. His tie had been removed and flung unceremoniously across the room, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned.
"Because fourteen was the last time I heard someone sincerely try to claim that Abbey Road was their favorite Beatles album."
"Oh, come on, it's –"
"So unoriginal. People only pick that one because it's famous and they don't know any better."
"That's a little elitist of you, love."
"You have a private country house and suddenly I'm the elitist?"
"Oh, sod off."
"Come on, you can do better than Abbey Road."
"Ah – you've got me," James admitted, sliding his legs around so that he was sitting right side up. "I'm more of a Stones man."
"Aahh, the truth comes out. Let me guess. Exile on Main Street?"
"Beggars Banquet."
"Interesting…" Brigid trailed off.
"What's yours?"
"What's my what?"
"Beatles album. Favorite."
"Oh – Rubber Soul."
"How obscure of you."
"Not really."
"Put it on and see how many songs I know."
Brigid rose from the couch, a little unsteadily, and pulled the record from a nearby box. She glanced out the window as she queued up the A-side and something occurred to her.
"Hang on. It's snowing."
"Oh?"
"What time is it?"
James looked down at his watch. "Oh…around ten."
"Ten? Jesus, once I get to the drink I just completely lose track of the time. What in God's name's happened to Sebastian?"
"Oh, I'd imagine he's just touching down in London now."
"Sorry?"
"I told him to leave hours ago."
"What for?" Brigid demanded, spinning around to face James.
"Careful, love. Coming dangerously close to an important question."
"No, I don't care why he's left, I mean – why are you still here?"
"Tonight's my night off."
"And?" Brigid advanced a step towards him.
"And…" He paused and took another drink. He looked thoughtful and just a touch….nervous?
"Explain yourself," Brigid said, moving to stand directly in front of him.
"I can't explain myself, Brigid. I'm not myself."
"Oh, don't give me that bloody nonsense –"
"I stayed because I wanted to stay. Does that satisfy you?"
"Hardly. Where was my say in this? What if I didn't want you to –"
"Didn't you, though?" He said softly, rising up to meet her. His eyes were very dark. They were so close, she could see herself reflected in them.
"I –"
Just then, his phone went off.
"Is that the Bee Gees?" she asked incredulously.
"Sorry – hold on – got to take this –"
"Oh, Christ," Brigid muttered as he strode off into the kitchen, whispering furiously into his phone.
She suddenly felt much drunker than she'd thought she was. Unnerved, she grabbed a fresh cigarette off the coffee table and lit it with shaking hand. James was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, phone pressed tight to his ear. Giving it all up as a bad job, she decided to go to bed. He'd sleep on the couch and the next morning they'd be sober and never speak of it again. Perhaps he'd even be gone before she woke up.
In the safety of her own room, she pushed aside the typewriter and climbed up onto the writing desk. She sat cross-legged and stared out across the dark, snow-laden meadow, thinking. What was happening to her?
She'd smoked the cigarette nearly down to the filter when she heard a noise downstairs. Brief silence, then the scratch of needle on record, then – another Beatles song. Must've switched it to the B-side, she mused. Her thoughts spiraled out in a hundred different directions as the music played softly below, but she was too slow, too drunk, to catch them all. They whizzed by her, fire and blood and ruined dresses and fluffy sheep –
Her stream of consciousness was interrupted as the first song ended and the next one began. Brigid sighed. Her favorite. She sang along, so quietly that she could barely hear herself.
"Is there anybody going to listen to my story?
All about the girl – "
" - who came to stay…"
Finished a deeper voice just behind Brigid's left ear. She gasped and jerked backwards. Two hands wrapped around her middle, catching her before she fell. She twisted her neck round and found herself nearly nose-to-nose with James.
"Thought you didn't know this album," she whispered accusingly.
"I don't," he replied. "But I know this song like it was written on my own heart."
In one fluid motion, he'd plucked the burning cigarette butt from her fingers, ashed it on the desk, and closed the remaining inch of distance between their lips. Everything seemed to stop. Brigid's mind went totally blank, and before she knew what she was doing she'd twisted full round on the desk and had both hands entwined in his hair. He deepened the kiss, gripping her hard by the waist as she wrapped both legs around him. He broke away for a moment and pressed his forehead into hers, looking solemnly down at her.
"Bed?" He whispered.
"Someone once told me that sex with strangers was so last year."
"What, now I'm a stranger?"
"Tell me your real name."
"James is my real name."
"I don't believe you."
"Most people call me Jim."
"I like James better."
"Me too."
"What's your surname?"
"Careful, love."
"Bed?"
"Bed."
