Surrey, England
November 2012
The second hand unwinds
I don't dare to let down my guard until I'm back in Ken's car the next day. Sinking down heavily in the seat, I watch in the side mirror as the seat of the Broderick family slowly disappears from view and breathe a long sigh of relief.
At least this is over.
I basically only made it through breakfast by attaching myself to Ken's elbow and making sure he never got out of earshot. Not that I don't hate how needy and insipid it made me look, but at least with Ken close, I was safe from more veiled insults. I've found that they don't dare be openly hostile to me when he's close, which says rather a lot about them, if you ask me.
The driveway makes a slight turn to the left and the reflection of the house is gone from the side mirror. Instead, when I angle my head slightly, I can see my own face looking back at me. I woke up with decidedly puffy eyes this morning, but Youtube wouldn't be Youtube if it didn't have a tutorial for that. Thus, my eye make-up might now be too heavy and too dark for a normal Sunday, but at least it elevates me from 'cried herself to sleep last night' to 'just a little tired'. Given the company, the too heavy make-up was absolutely the lesser evil.
In front of us, the cast-iron gate comes into view.
"I was surprised you stuck to the rules about separate bedrooms," Ken remarks as he steers the car through it and out onto the public road. When I turn to look at him, he throws me a quick smile.
"The penguin wouldn't tell me which room was yours," I explain, trying to sound casual. "Besides, I bet you were given a nice, big, fancy room on first floor, so I would likely have been discovered if I had attempted to sneak down."
Ken frowns. "Why 'sneak down'? Where was your room?"
"Second floor. Which apparently you didn't make much of an attempt to find out either." In some rational part of my brain, I know it's unfair to attack him for something he had little control over, but he's the reason I had to be there in the first place, right?
"I didn't want to wake you up in case you had already gone to sleep," Ken tries to defend himself. "I just had some hope you'd be there in my room when I came up."
"I certainly imagine your bed was more comfortable than that plank bed they had me sleep on. It wouldn't have been out of place in some country prison in the 19th century," I mutter darkly.
Steering the car around a corner, Ken appears to take a moment to gather his thoughts. "Was there an issue with your room?"
"Not at all. I'm sure that in bygone centuries many a scullery maid thought it a perfectly adequate place to sleep," I reply sarcastically.
"I'm sure it wasn't…" begins Ken.
"It was!" I interrupt. "I've watched enough Downton Abbey to recognise a servant's bedroom when I see one. And while I absolutely wouldn't mind sleeping in one in general, I don't much care for the message they sent out by putting me there."
He takes his eyes off the road for long to give me a look that is mostly questioning and a little impatient. "I'm sure they used every available room in the house," he points out, sounding maddeningly reasonable. "A lot of guests weren't put up in the house at all but relegated to outbuildings or even accommodation off the estate altogether. And I didn't confirm your attendance until fairly late, so what with the rule of not sharing, they put you up where they had space."
"God," I breathe. "Have you always been this gullible?"
A moment passes before Ken asks, "Excuse me?" His voice is quiet, but strained.
"I'd be surprised if there ever was a No Sharing Rule and if it existed, I bet it didn't apply to anyone but us!" I argue, my own voice rising. "It was just about separating us and putting me where they think I belong."
"Where you belong?" He's clearly irritated now.
"Precisely." I nod curtly. "It was all very Upstairs, Downstairs, except that instead of downstairs, they put me up-upstairs. But the message was crystal clear. As was their intent all last evening."
There's a roundabout ahead and Ken has to brake a little too hard to keep the car on course. Behind us, the PPO's car flashes its headlights warningly.
"So, I take it you didn't enjoy yourself," Ken finally remarks. He doesn't look at me. Instead, he's staring straight ahead at the road.
I scoff. "Are you kidding me? I can't say for sure if it was the very worst evening of my life, but it was certainly up there. These people are just awful!"
"These people," he repeats, putting a strange emphasis on the words, "are my friends."
"I have no idea why they would be," I murmur darkly.
"They are perfectly nice once you get to know them," Ken argues.
I let my silence express my doubt.
He, of course, knows me well enough to pick up on it. "I'm sure they meant nothing by assigning you to that room and apart from that, I didn't notice anyone being unfriendly to you." There's a note of finality in his voice that tells me he'd like to give the subject a rest now.
Naturally, I'm not having any of it. "That's because they generally waited until you were out of earshot to insult me!"
A red light forces us to a stop, but Ken doesn't look at me. He's staring ahead, his fingers impatiently drumming on the steering wheel. I purse my lips, waiting for him to react first.
As the light turns green and he restarts the car, Ken sighs a long, weary sigh. "Tell me what you felt they did to slight you?"
"You want the list? Sure! We've already got the made-up rule about separating unmarried couples and giving me the least nice room in the entire house. We also can't ignore the nifty trick of putting me next to the most boring guest for dinner." As I speak, I tick off the point with my fingers. "And then there's the dress code."
"What about it?" asks Ken. He changes gears with more force than necessary, causing the car to emit a protesting sound.
"What dress code did they tell you applied?" I know the answer, of course, but I'm making a point here.
He throws me an impatient look. "Tuxedos for men, cocktail dresses for women."
"And did you, by any chance, notice that I was the only one there not wearing an evening gown?" I want to know, my voice rising again. "They deliberately told you the wrong dress code so I'd be underdressed!"
"I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding. If I misheard, I apologise." He's trying to downplay the matter, but what good does that do now?
"You let me walk into a room full of uber-posh people in an outfit that made me look like I couldn't dress myself appropriately! Or worse, that I couldn't afford it," I accuse. "And rest assured they wasted no time to let me know!"
"What did they say?" he asks, his voice tight. I'd love to pretend his annoyance is directed at the people who belittled me for my choice of dress, but I know that it's really about me turning this into An Issue.
Balling my hands into fists, I take a deep breath to bring my voice back under control. "After Hilda tried to unsettle me by pretending my dress was torn open in the back, I was kindly informed by two figures called Egg and Dizzy how lovely it is that Topshop now sells clothes to ordinary people to replace the homemade ones we peasants used to wear!"
"They're just jealous," Ken replies irritably. "You're three times prettier than them on any given day. God knows Egg's called that because of her egg-shaped head and Dizzy got her nickname because she's so dizzyingly tall. No designer dress in the world will ever make them pretty enough to compare with you and they know it."
The words themselves could be considered complimentary, but the way he virtually throws them at my feet doesn't make me inclined to accept whatever praise of my looks might be hidden between the lines.
Instead, I turn toward the next topic because obviously, he doesn't want to understand what the wrongly relayed dress code signifies. "Then what about your ex-girlfriend trying to exclude me from the conversation by mentioning the fun times you two had sailing? The ex-girlfriend, mind, who I didn't even know would be there!"
"I didn't let her exclude you, did I?" Ken shoots back immediately. "And I didn't realise Toppy being there would be a problem for you. I thought we were past that."
"We might be, but that awful Vera certainly isn't!" I point out, doing little to keep the indignation out of my voice. "It's not like she missed any opportunity to hoist Toppy on you! In fact, I had to listen to her rhapsodise about what a nice couple you to make and that I'm just there to keep your bed warm until you turn towards a more suitable woman!"
"Nonsense," snaps Ken.
Behind us, the PPO's car flashes its headlights again and when I look over at the speedo, I can see that we're going more than a little too fast. Ken, too, notices it and brakes abruptly, lowering the speed to just below the limit.
"Is it nonsense?" I want to know. "These so-called friends of yours certainly did a good job of showing me that they don't think it is."
"They are my friends," insists Ken. "I can't imagine they did all those things on purpose. I've never known them to be anything but friendly."
"Of course not!" I cry. "You're at the top of the food pyramid. These people would sooner hack off their arms than stop sucking up to you and risk being excluded from your presence by being banned to social Siberia. Leeching is the very mark of a parasite, after all!"
Ken slams the steering wheel with his palm, making me flinch.
"Would you stop calling them that?" he demands.
"Parasite?" I ask sarcastically. "Sorry, only speaking the truth."
But Ken shakes his head. "These people. Stop calling them that."
"As long as they do everything in their power to try and make me feel worthless, I will call them anything I like! These people, parasites, snobs. It's not my fault if the shoe fits!" I ball my fists even tighter, feeling my nails dig into the skin.
"You made up your mind about them long before that!" claims Ken. "In fact, you did it before we even arrived when you said that these people should come with cliff notes. It was right before you made fun of my country for having roundabouts."
That draws an incredulous laugh from me. "I was joking! You know, funny, haha? That kind of thing?"
Before us, another roundabout looms, because of course it does.
"And that means there's no truth in jokes?" asks Ken tersely as he slows down the car just enough to navigate the road ahead. "There were plenty of people present who were curious to meet you and were disappointed by how little you talked to them. But your mind was already made up, wasn't it? In your own way, you're as snobbish about this as you accuse Vera and the others of being."
For a moment, the sheer audacity of that statement robs me of my speech and I just stare at him, open-mouthed. He looks ahead resolutely.
"That's rich!" I exclaim once my voice cooperates again. "And I refuse to allow you to make me the villain in this. Not when I spent the better part of a weekend being shown my lack of worth by –"
"These people?" finishes Ken for me, voice dangerously low. "If by 'these people' you mean anyone born with a title, I'll have you know that I am one of them."
He's certainly acting the part well!
"Well, that fits, because I'm beginning to think you also don't consider me worthy of being anything more than the girl you fuck until you find someone more suitable," I hiss.
Ken slams his foot on the brakes and with a screeching sound, the car comes to a stop. I fall forward, before being jerked sharply back by the jamming seatbelt. The PPO's car, I notice distractedly, has to veer into the other lane to keep from crashing into us. Thankfully, there are no other cars to be seen.
"What the hell is your problem?" snarls Ken, finally turning to look at me.
"My problem?" I instinctively sit up straighter. "What is yours? Or rather, what is your problem with me that after two bloody years of dating, I not only don't get invited to your birthday dinner, I don't even know it's even happening?"
He clenches his jaw. "Who told you about that?"
"Not you!" Because really, that's all that matters, right?
Ken makes an impatient sound. "Look this is –"
"Complicated?" I interrupt. "What is complicated about it? I know Toppy used to get invited and so did Tatty. What is wrong with me that you can't show yourself with me at a family dinner? Is it that I don't have a title? Is it that I don't have a ridiculous nickname beginning with T? What's the problem?"
Before he can answer, there's a knock on the window making Ken jerk his head around. On the other side is Beckett, a frown on his face. I turn to the left and stare out of my own window even as I hear Ken lower his. "What?"
"Is everything alright, Sir?" asks Beckett, his voice more even than mine would be after being addressed such.
"Fine," snaps Ken. "Just… wait over there or something."
"Very well, Sir," agrees Beckett. (Seriously, is he a saint?)
A softly whirring sound indicates that Ken is raising the window again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Beckett retreating, but I don't turn around. Instead, I stare into the distance where a train is passing by. With the window back in place, silence fills the car, stretching and expanding until I think I must choke on it.
Still keeping my gaze resolutely ahead, I inhale deeply. "I went to that party hoping to meet some friendly people. I left it with the knowledge that there's not a single person in this entire country who likes me."
Only now do I turn my head and find that Ken is looking at me, our eyes meeting even as the distance between us seems to stretch out, too far now to be bridged by touch. "I do," he replies quietly.
"I know." Because I do. "It's just that you're the only one. My classmates don't like me, my professors don't like me and your friends don't like me either. It's like being with you makes me unacceptable to one half of the people I meet and where I came from makes me intolerable to the other half."
I can see Ken swallow visibly, but he doesn't say anything in return.
Thus, I continue, though my voice is all weird. "I never wanted to give you that talk about how much I gave up for you because that's such a bloody cliché. But I did. I gave up an awful lot to come here and be with you. I put thousands of miles between myself and my family, myself and my friends. Hell, I even deserted my cat!"
My voice catches in my throat and I have to take several deep breaths before I can speak again. "I just… I just need to know that this… that you and I, that this means something. That I'm not just here because I happened to be around when you had a temporary spot in your bed to fill."
"Is that really what you think?" asks Ken, so quiet that I almost don't hear it.
I shake my head. Then nod it. "I didn't. I truly didn't. But knowing that I'm not even invited to your birthday dinner… that, after two years, I'm still no step closer to meeting your family… what am I supposed to think?"
Ken reaches out a hand almost automatically, but pulls it back before he can touch me. "Not that. I… I wanted you to come. To the dinner. To meet my family."
"But?" I ask softly when he doesn't say anything more. Part of me is almost afraid of hearing the answer.
Ken turns his head, looks out through the windshield again as too long a moment passes in silence.
"My mother –" he finally begins.
I don't let him finish. "Oh, please. Give me a break!" If anger was replaced by sadness just minutes earlier, it's now rearing its head again. Because I've heard those two words too often, it seems.
Watching him from the side, I can see a shadow of something pass over his face. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, a definite edge to his voice.
"That I'm tired of having your mother thrown at me as an excuse every time you lock me out of your life," I answer, trying to make it sound reasonable rather than accusatory and not really succeeding.
His jaw clenches and when he speaks, it sounds like he's forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "It's not an excuse."
(And here I was thinking we were making progress.)
"It sure feels like one." My own voice, I can't help noticing, is rising again, despite my attempts to keep it under control.
Ken is still staring ahead. "You don't know anything about my mother," he states brusquely.
"And why is that?" I cry out, all hope of control now forlorn. "You never talk to me about her! There are only ever veiled hints about her being unwell and whenever I dare ask anything, you clam up and leave the room. How am I supposed to know anything if you don't tell me?"
"I don't have to talk to you about every darn thing." He positively spits out the last words.
I scoff. "No. I have no hope of that ever happening. I just think it would be nice if you at least talked to me about the important things, but you aren't even doing that. I get fobbed off with trivial matters and am supposed to be grateful that you deign to speak to me at all!"
He shakes his head, a short, abrupt movement. "That's not true."
"So prove me wrong! Tell me now!" I challenge, knowing full well that he won't do it.
And he doesn't. Instead, his face tells me that he's closing off completely. "It's not for me to tell."
"It might be. I'm not asking for your mother's deepest secrets. I just… this is weighing on you and if you'd just help me understand…" I'm begging now, I realise, but not even caring. I have a feeling that if only I could get him to talk to me –
Alas, it's not happening.
Instead, Ken jerks his head around to finally look at me, but when he does, I immediately wish he'd look away again. There's something in his eyes that makes me recoil instinctively. His voice is low and warning. "What makes you think you have any right to know anything about my mother?"
A mirthless laugh passes my lips. "Oh, I don't know!" I exclaim sarcastically. "Maybe I thought being in a two year-long relationship with you meant I deserved a little honesty, but I'm beginning to see that's not the case. Instead, I'm increasingly coming to understand that your friends were right to question the veracity of what we have. It certainly doesn't look like much right now and I'm wondering if it ever was."
Ken makes an impatient movement with one hand. "Stop talking such nonsense."
"Nonsense?" I repeat, my voice tripping over itself in disbelief. "How can you call it nonsense when you're so careful to keep me ignorant about so many things in your life? There's hardly anything you don't know about me, but I sometimes feel you might as well be a stranger for how little I know about you!"
He looks at me, his face unmoving except for his grinding jaw. I suddenly feel close to tears.
"What does it take, Ken?" I implore. "What does it take for me to prove myself? What does it take for you to trust me?"
"I do trust you," he replies tersely.
"Then why won't you talk to me?" I have to speak around a lump lodged in my throat and it makes my voice sound like it belongs to stranger.
A long second passes as we just look at each other, me furiously blinking away tears, him clearly fighting to keep his expression emotionless. There's so much there, just below the surface, but even now, he won't let me see.
"It's –" He breaks off abruptly, shaking his head.
But I know what he meant to say.
"Complicated," I whisper, the fight leaving me with a single breath.
We're back to square one.
And suddenly, I can't stand it any longer. I can't sit here, in this too small car, for one more second. Not with him next to me and all the things he's not saying filling up the space and making it hard to breath.
Throwing the door open, I practically flee the car, taking a few steps to get away from it and only stopping when I feel I can breathe again. My hands grip my handbag tight enough to turn my knuckles white and the cold November air stings my face, but it's a welcome pain.
There's no chance in hell of me getting back in there. Not when Oxford – it's never felt less like home than it does now – is still more than an hour's drive away.
Behind me, I can hear Ken get out of the car as well. When I turn to face him over the hood of the car, there's a new kind of determination flooding through me that allows me to keep my head high.
"What do you think are you doing?" he asks brusquely. His PPOs, I notice, are moving closer, obviously equally unsure what to make of the situation. Their expressions leave no doubt at how uncomfortable they feel at having to bear witness to this.
"I will walk to that village over there," I tell Ken with as much calm as I can muster, "and take the train home from there. I think you and I need some space."
For a second, I think he will protest, but then he moves his head slightly, obviously realising that we have an audience, and swallows whatever he meant to say. Instead, he barks, "Hanson! You go with her."
To my left, Hanson raises his head, looking clearly alarmed at being dragged into this.
"He will do no such thing!" I snap, keeping my gaze locked on Ken's. "In case you have forgotten, I'm not the one who needs the babysitters around. My background might not be good enough to pass muster in your friends' eyes, but at least it allows me to go wherever I want to, whenever I want to. Alone!"
Once again, Ken seems to go through a selection of possible responses before, still mindful of our company, he settles on a curt, "You put too much faith in our railway system."
I narrow my eyes at him. "Given that I don't think you have any kind of personal experience with public transport, I'm going to take my chances."
It's low and I know it. So does he, judging from the shiver that passes over his face. But we're long past being polite and it all feels too fraught for me to try. Instead, without another word, I turn around and set foot on the path that leads through a field and towards the village a short distance away.
Knowing that, if I were to turn around, I'd find him looking, I make a point not to. I just keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, tears burning in my eyes, trying not to think about what just happened – or what it could possibly mean.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Time After Time' (written by Cyndi Lauper and Rob Hyman, released by Cyndi Lauper in 1984).
To AnneShirley:
Hello, hello! How are you doing? I hope school's still going well? :)
Yes, Fiona definitely isn't as "highly" born as Vera would have liked her brother's future wife to be! She's wealthy, but of what they call "new money". The Brodericks can use the money she brings into that union, but they would have liked her even better with a title. In fairness though, Steve himself doesn't care, so at least they've got that.
As for Fiona's future role, I haven't yet decided whether I plan to utilise her again, but if I do, she'll lean towards supporting Rilla, if only to annoy Vera. She doesn't like Vera much, which definitely counts in her favour!
To JoAnna:
Hello, welcome and thank you very much for your reviews - both this one and the other one over on 'Dark Clouds'. I'm very glad that you're enjoying both stories and that you've reached out and commented! I always love to hear from readers :).
I'm not exactly nice to Rilla at the moment and I know it. I'm even a little bit sorry about it. Problem is, I do like a bit of conflict now and then, and my characters have to live with the consequences of that ;). In my defence, things will be looking up soon. We're pretty much at the lowest point of that particular emotional valley, so it can only improve from here on.
To Mammu:
Oh, absolutely! ;)
Sadly, snobbery comes in many shapes and sizes, but however it manifests, it's always awful to be made to feel like you don't belong. I promise that we will get to the sunsets and tiaras for Rilla, but it's a long and winding road, to keep with my song lyrics theme.
As for Ken... well, you've got some of his thoughts in his own words now. Feeling more inclined to forgive him yet? ;) Rilla doesn't, so it's alright if you don't. It's going to need more than this to resolve their current differences and let me just say... your mention of Jake was a most excellent one!
Steve, bless him, is very much like Mr Bingley. As he will be described later by someone who should know: "Steve's as harmless as a teddy bear, but also has the all perceptiveness you'd expect from a stuffed animal." He really is that clueless, but he's not cruel. Basically the exact opposite of his charming sisters.
