Oxford, England
June 2013
Did you think I'd crumble?
Scrunching up my nose in distaste, I drop the textbook on my folded legs and give it a glare for good measure. This isn't fun at all, no matter what Josh says. And I really don't understand why they make us write an exam in June when the corresponding course took place last autumn. Who even remembers anything they learned last autumn?
Giving up studying as a bad job, I allow my gaze to travel. As usual, it is almost automatically drawn to Ken who is lying next to me. Truly, some people can sleep through anything. My bedside light doesn't seem to bother him at all, nor is he woken when I huff in annoyance both at the Sociological Analysis textbook and at him sleeping through my time of need.
It's really unfair, how he just falls asleep at will, no matter what is happening around him. He just decides that it's time to sleep, lies down, closes his eyes and like that, he's dead to the world. I need to cause quite the ruckus if I 'accidentally' want to wake him before morning. (Which, yes, I have totally done. But no telling him that, please!)
Shoving the book to the side (and hearing it fall to the floor with a thud), I uncross my legs and slide downwards from my sitting position until I'm lying beside Ken, head propped up on one hand. He does, I decide, look very peaceful like this. When awake, his features are normally animated, expressing thoughts and emotions, or else, stiff and controlled when he's trying to hide what he feels. Now though, they're perfectly calm and relaxed. (It feels a bit Twilight-y, to be watching him sleep, but in my defence, at least I didn't break into the house to do it. And I don't sparkle in sunlight, which surely ought to count in my favour.)
Carefully raising my free hand, I gently touch the tip of my index finger to his face, tracing the soft laughter lines by his eyes and the more pronounced line of worry between his brows.
"Now I know what the cat feels like."
Startled, I draw back. Ken is looking at me now, awake and alert, his previously calm face now schooled into an expression of mirth.
"You're awake!" I scold, trying to cover my surprise at this turn of events.
"I am," confirms Ken amusedly.
"But you always fall asleep the moment you want to fall asleep!" I argue. "How can you still be awake?"
"I didn't want to sleep yet," he answers logically, "so I didn't."
I frown at him, making sure he can see it, even in the half-light of my bedside lamp. "And then you decided to pretend to be asleep instead?"
It's a bit of a rhetorical question.
Ken grins at me as he folds one arm behind his head. "It was fun. I could hear you huffing and puffing and plotting the murder of about half a dozen innocent people."
"Hardly innocent!" I scoff. "They're making me write not one but two exams on material from past terms. That's not nice!"
"Not such a fan of Marxism anymore, are you?" teases Ken. (My second exam, of course, being Social Stratification.)
"You're certainly doing a good job convincing me of its good points," I inform him, now biting back a grin myself. "I mean, all things considered… there's something to be said for being allowed to vote for your leaders…"
"You don't vote for kings," retorts Ken, sounding very relaxed indeed about this matter. (I mean, he would be, right?)
I swat at him playfully. "No. You're appointed in a farcical aquatic ceremony, aren't you?"
I can see his eyes light up as he realises that I correctly placed his somewhat vague quote and lobbed a very definite one right back at him.
"Besides," I continue loftily, "there's obviously just one king in this household and it is not you."
"No, obviously not," agrees Ken, grinning. "Though I can now commiserate with him."
"What about?" I ask, eyeing him warily. I may not know what he means, but I do know he means to tease me.
"About what it feels like when he's just lying there, minding his own business, catching up on much needed rest, and then you come along and start poking and probing him without permission," Ken answers, looking smug.
Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I look at him, my brain whirring in an attempt to come up with a good response. (I can't deny it, is the problem. I do, on occasion, stroke or squish George when he has not, strictly speaking, shown any desire to be stroked or squished. But it's really not my fault his paws are so squishable, is it?)
Of course, Ken knows exactly that he's got me there and his self-satisfied grin is the perfect proof of it. To wipe it right of his face, I raise an eyebrow and point out, "You're not usually complaining about the poking and probing…"
I let the sentence trail off suggestively, thinking I've scored a good point, but Ken yet again has the last word. "That's an interesting theory. Want me to help you prove it?" Says it and flips us both so that I'm suddenly flat on my back with him hovering above me.
And really, what else can I do but to give him a firm poke in the ribs for such insolence?
Obviously, that leads to him tickling my sides, which leads to me trying to swat at him, which results in him grabbing both my hands and holding firm. From there on, we progress to kissing quite naturally and I do think I'm making quite good case for myself and my theory when –
When suddenly, his phone rings.
Groaning, Ken rolls over and sits up, blindly feeling for his phone on the nightstand.
"Leave it be," I pout as I reach for him.
"Can't," he replies, sounding quite frustrated. (I said it was a valid theory!). "It's the PPOs."
But it's less a word than an unwilling sound with which he raises the phone to his ear, followed merely by a succession of "hmm"s. I flop back onto my pillow, waiting for the call to be over and scientific experimenting to resume. However, as one moment passes and then another, I notice his curt sounds stretching out, expressing first surprise and then… is that concern?
Sitting up and shifting closer to him, I catch Ken's eye and raise an eyebrow in question. He frowns, then puts a hand over the phone and says quietly, "Your sister."
"My sister?" I repeat, dumb-founded.
"She's downstairs," adds Ken, not looking like he understands much more than I do.
"My sister is downstairs?" I clarify, just to be sure. This is much too confusing for my brain at this late hour.
"It would appear so," confirms Ken, still frowning.
I blink at him. Then, struck by a sudden thought, I ask, "Which sister?"
Ken's frown deepens. Then, removing his hand from the phone, he asks into the microphone, "Which sister?"
Apparently, someone on the other end provides said information, because seconds later, he looks back at me and answers, "It's Nan."
Nan.
Huh.
"Well?" Though quite what I am asking, I don't even know myself. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that apparently, Nan is here, in the middle of the night, without any forewarning.
(This cannot be good, right?)
"Well," echoes Ken. A moment passes, before he speaks into the phone again, "Send her in."
Which, all things considered, sounds like a sensible course of action and one I definitely approve of.
He cuts the call and for a few seconds, we remain sitting on the bed, looking at each other, both trying to make heads or tails of this. Finally, Ken suggests, "Better go downstairs."
"Yes," I agree. "Let's."
Climbing out of bed, I adjust my nightshirt and reach for a cardigan to put on over it. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ken pull on a t-shirt. When our gazes meet, he inclines his head towards the door and I nod slightly, so he reaches out to take my hand and we go downstairs, to try and find out what my sister is doing here, now.
One look at her standing on the doorstep confirms without a doubt that no, this cannot be good. Not good at all.
See, the thing is, Di might be the most fashion-conscious of us sisters, but the rest of us care as well, with the possible exception of Joy (whose work with disadvantaged women is surely worthy and fulfilling, but didn't do much good for her wardrobe). Nan certainly cares, so for her to be looking like she does now, something has to be the matter.
Her face is pale and her eyes both puffy and shadow-rimmed. Her hair is damp and stringy, as if she got caught in a downpour at some point. She has the sleeves of her rumpled sweater pulled over her fists and I can't help wondering if she lost her jacket along the way or if she never wore one at all. She has no luggage, except for the handbag haphazardly slung over one shoulder.
When she raises her eyes from the doormat to look at me, she tries to smile, but fails miserably. "Hello." She swallows, as if the word doesn't quite want to come out right.
"Nan," I murmur, not quite sure what to say.
Luckily, Ken is quicker to assess the situation. "Why don't you come inside, Nan?" he invites, nudging me slightly to get me to make space for her to pass. As she does, I instinctively reach out to give her a hug, which she returns for a moment. Over her shoulder, I see Ken nod at a PPO standing outside, before firmly closing the door.
Taking a step back but keeping my hands on her upper arms, I survey my sister once again. Emotions flicker over her face and I will get to the bottom them later, but for now, the prevailing sense is that she seems to be dead tired. And no wonder. It's just early evening in Canada, but she must be coming fresh off a transatlantic flight and I can only guess at what happened to drain her emotionally.
"Come on." Making a quick decision, I take her hand and tug her towards the stairs. She follows willingly, almost passively. Ken hangs back and as we pass him, I exchange a short but meaningful look with him.
Leading Nan into the back bedroom, I deposit her on the bed with the promise to be back in a minute, before popping over to our bedroom to get some fresh clothes for her. My first instinct is to grab some pyjamas, given the late hour, but on second thought, I select a pair of sweatpants and a soft cotton t-shirt instead. With Ken around, she might feel more comfortable in these.
Returning to the back bedroom, I find Nan still sitting on the bed, staring off into space.
"There's a bathroom next door, if you want to take a shower or freshen up a bit," I offer, holding the clothes out for her to take. Right now, my first instinct is to make her comfortable and get her into bed. Then, if she wants to talk, we can do that.
Nan blinks at me, as if resurfacing from a deep thought. It takes a moment for her to nod and accept the clothing. "Shower would be good," she agrees, though her voice sounds strangely flat.
I point her to the guest bathroom, quickly fetching a fresh towel and a bottle of shampoo and depositing them next to the shower while Nan undresses with slow, mechanical movements. After wrangling the rather temperamental shower for her, I leave her to it, instead busying myself with preparing the back bedroom and getting some sheets on the bed.
I've just finished putting a cover on the pillow, when I hear someone behind me. Expecting Nan, I take a deep breath before turning, but it's just Ken, holding a tray with a teapot and two mugs.
"How is she?" he asks quietly, setting down the tray on a chest of drawers.
I shrug, feeling more than a little helpless. "I don't know. She's not exactly talking."
"Give her some time," he replies, not unwisely. "If she wants to talk about it, she will."
"Probably," I agree, unconsciously wringing my hands.
Leaning forward, Ken gently kisses my forehead. "I'll be downstairs. Call if there's anything I can do."
"I will." I nod. "Thanks."
He turns to leave and it's not too much later that the bathroom door opens, revealing a freshly showered Nan dressed in my clothes.
"This feels better," she tells me. "Thank you."
"Anytime," I'm quick to assure her. "Do you, um… want to sleep?"
But Nan doesn't appear to hear me. Instead, her eyes are fixed on the tray Ken brought up. Following her gaze, I explain, "Ken made tea. Do you want some?"
"He made tea," she repeats, voice sounding decidedly odd.
Um… he did?
"If you don't want tea, that's alright. I can take it back downstairs. If you'd rather have coffee, Ken has this futuristic coffeemaker that makes every possible hot drink under the sun. Except for chai latte, I think. You don't want chai latte, do you? We could get some from the shop if you do. I'd have to ask Ken." I'm blabbing, but find that I'm unable to stop myself. Something about her behaviour is deeply unsettling me and her fixation on the tea is the least of it.
My monologue doesn't even appear to register with Nan though. "He made tea," she repeats again and if I wasn't worried before, I certainly am now.
"Yes, tea," I confirm, taking a cautious step closer to her. "You don't have to drink it. He just meant well. It's the Englishness in him. Tea is their answer to every possible problem under the sun. I'm sure that if the Mayans had been right and the world had really ended last December, the English would have reacted by drinking tea while everyone else panicked."
Not that that information is in any way interesting or relevant to her, but since she isn't talking, I feel a compulsory need to fill the silence with, well, something.
Nan reaches out and briefly lets her fingertips graze the handle of the teapot. Then she turns to look at me. "That's so sweet of him. To make tea for you."
Part of me wants to clarify that the tea is actually for her, but the bigger part finally feels like it's cottoning on what the problem is here. The tea is but a symbol and if my boyfriend making tea for me inspired such a reaction, it points me directly into the direction of the culprit of Nan's strange behaviour.
(I'm going to murder him.)
"Yes, it's rather nice of him," I confirm, meaning Ken. Then, deftly holding up the bedding, I ask, "Do you want to get in? It's getting rather chilly."
That, of course, is a lie. It's not chilly at all. It's June and in June, even English weather is mostly agreeable. But if it gets her into bed, a little lie won't hurt anyone.
Nan, at any rate, doesn't seem inclined to contradict me, instead getting into bed and letting me tuck the blanket in around her. I just want to ask whether she wants to rest, when she grasps my hand and looks at me from below, her expression indecipherable. "Stay with me for a bit?"
"Sure," I reply and move to dim the light before slipping into the bed beside her.
If I thought that this would get her talking, however, I was clearly mistaken. Instead, it is me finally asking cautiously, "Nan… why are you here?"
"Oh." She sounds almost surprised by the question. "Why, this was the furthest place I could go to, of course." She makes it sound like it should have been obvious when in fact, it raises more questions than it answers.
"I was at the airport and thought about where to go. New York was out of the question for obvious reasons and Winnipeg and Halifax didn't feel far away enough," she adds after a moment.
Not that it clears up much either.
"And… why did you need to go far away?" I enquire, trying to phrase my question carefully.
(I have an idea, of course. A pretty good idea, even. But I'm still hoping it'll turn out to be something else. Anything else.)
"Because of Jerry," answers Nan and though she says it very matter-of-factly, I can hear her voice wobble slightly.
I look at her from the side, her profile contrasting against the half-dark in the room. I try to think of a way to say this gently, but the only thing I can come up with is, "What did he do?"
"What he did?" repeats Nan, the tone of her voice several notes too high. "Slept with his colleague, that's what. Bloody Candice with her bloody extensions and her bloody irritating laugh."
Bastard.
"Bastard."
"You can say that again," agrees Nan darkly.
"Bastard."
At least that draws a shaky laugh from her.
I'm almost afraid to ask for details, but now that she's started talking it seems to have loosened something in Nan. "He was on a business trip to New York this week. I'm done with exams, so I suggested I could come with him and meet with Joy and her family. He didn't say no outright, but he was vague about it until it was too late for me to go. That should have been a warning, but that's hindsight for you."
(At least that explains why New York was out of the question for obvious reasons.)
Nan's mouth twists into a mirthless smile, but she's not done talking. "Naïve, stupid me didn't think much of it though. I just wished him a successful trip and waved him off. He was scheduled to come home tonight, so I called this morning – was it really just this morning? – to ask when I could expect him and what he wanted for dinner. Three guesses who answered the phone?"
Bloody Candice.
"Bloody Candice," continues Nan, answering her own question. "Chirped at me that Jerry was in the shower and could she take a message for him?"
"That –" I break off, all the names I have for the unknown Candice burning on my tongue.
"Precisely." Nan nods curtly. "I didn't even have a good retort. Now, I know so many things I should have said, but when we talked, it was blank. I just told her to ask Jerry to call me back. I think I even wished her a good day!"
Somehow, that seems to vex her especially.
"Did he call back?" I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from bloody Candice.
"You bet he did," confirms Nan, suddenly sounding bitter. "He had all kinds of explanations and excuses. About how it didn't mean anything and that it had just happened. How, I ask you, do these things just happen?"
"They don't," I answer quietly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as I remember that when I was in this situation, I wasn't Nan. I was Jerry.
"They don't," repeats Nan, almost spitting out the words. "I told him so, of course. Do you want to know what he said? He told me that he had been feeling stressed by the wedding preparations and the pressure that came with marriage and that Candice didn't expect anything from him."
Bloody bastard.
"He's wrong, of course," asserts Nan. "Her kind always has expectations. They just don't reveal them right away."
"Not that it changes anything anyway," I remark.
"It doesn't," agrees Nan curtly. "I told him that, too. I also might have said a few things about how he is obviously unable to commit to a serious relationship and whether he thinks his mother abandoning him played a role in turning him into a commitment phobic."
Ouch.
But then, it's fully within her rights and it's not like he didn't deserve anything she threw at him.
"When I said that, he became very chilly and even dared to tell me that I was being overexcited and that we would talk about it when he got home. Can you believe the nerve?" Her voice rises progressively as she speaks, threatening to crack at the end.
"Bastard." Because really, what else I there to say?
"He is, isn't he?" Surprisingly, the thought seems to fill her with grim satisfaction. "Of course, I wasn't likely to sit around and wait for him to actually appear home after that. I grabbed my passport, took a cab to Pearson and …" She trails off.
"England was the furthest place to go," I finish for her. We've come full circle.
Truth to be told, I'm a little surprised she came here. Not because Di or Mum would have been the more obvious choices – it's not like Winnipeg and Halifax are right around the corner from Toronto either – but because, well… that their wedding preparations were as stressful as they were is partly my fault, isn't it? Even if I never intended it.
"Do you think…" I begin cautiously. "Do you think that… I mean, I know that the press has been following you around quite a bit and I can't help wonder…"
"Whether that played a part?" asks Nan. If I expected her to get angry or emotional, I was mistaken. She sounds very composed, almost conversational. "I considered that, actually. Jerry detests those reporters. There was even a point during the flight when I was ready to blame it all on them – and on you. I was quite angry. If that plane had landed two hours earlier, I might have gotten on a return flight straight away."
I swallow. I was afraid of that.
"What changed your mind?" I want to know – or don't want to know. I'm not entirely sure.
"He doesn't get to have it that easy," answers Nan grimly. "This isn't about the wedding preparations or about the reporters or even about bloody Candice. It's not even about Cecilia running away to play flower child in a commune. This is about him and his betrayal and he doesn't get to brush that aside with stupid excuses. I'm not making it that easy for him."
There's something determined about her now, something almost fierce that I can't help be impressed by. "That is… I think that's a good mind-set to be in," I tell her, meaning every word.
"Oh, you should have seen me during the flight," demurs Nan. "I was bawling my eyes out for half of it. At some point, I decided to be angry though and that helps. I like being angry. It's easier than being sad."
Truer words were rarely ever spoken.
Nan lapses into silence, staring at the ceiling with a frown, her mouth set in a determined line. She's always been terrifying when angry and now is no exception. It makes me feel a little timid around her and I'd feel pity for Jerry if he didn't deserve all her wrath and then some. (I imagine Di won't feel very kindly towards him either once she learns of this.)
Two or three minutes pass without Nan offering anything more. "And… what now?" I finally ask, unsure what else to say.
My sister turns to look at me. "Now I'm going to let you sleep," she decides, "and I will try the same. It must be past midnight."
"Are you sure? I can stay, if you want," I offer quickly. "Or is there anything else you need?"
"A voodoo doll would be nice," retorts Nan with a wry smile. "But it can wait until tomorrow."
Well.
Well, then.
"A voodoo doll. Noted." I nod. "And for tonight, I have something else that might… not help, per se, but not not help either."
Under Nan's gaze, I slip from the bed and leave the room, only to return moments later, my arms laden with Mrs Lynde's apple leaf quilt. "For comfort," I explain.
"Of course," agrees Nan. "Thank you." For a moment, I think her eyes are a bit teary, but then she blinks and the look of determination is back.
I carefully spread the quilt out over her. The very second it's in place, George, who must have followed me inside, jumps on top of it. Without any fuss or hesitation, he curls himself into a cat donut, settles his head on his paws and closes his eyes.
"Is this alright?" I ask, my eyes finding Nan's.
She nods. "He'll look after me tonight. Won't you, boy?"
If George disagrees, he doesn't voice it, so I lean forward to drop a kiss on Nan's head, mostly because I can hardly wish her a good night, can I? She replies with a lop-sided smile and a squeeze of my hand, before settling back into the pillows.
Truth to be told, I'm not fully convinced that it's a good idea to leave her alone, but she does have George and anyway, it would be even worse not to respect her wishes. So, despite the nagging feeling, I simply pick up the tray with the now cold tea, switch off the light and close the door behind me.
Quietly, I go downstairs and deposit the tray in the kitchen. As I walk back through the hall, I can see light coming from the living room, so make my way there. Opening the door, I find Ken sitting on the sofa, reading. When he sees me, he sets the book aside and holds out his arms for me. I quickly walk over to sit next to him, drawing my legs under me. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses my forehead.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers.
I sigh. "He cheated on her."
Ken curses softly. I can't say I disagree.
"And now?" he asks after a moment.
I shrug. "I don't know. He made excuses, but how much they're worth, I have no idea. She's hurt and she's angry. I don't know whether she can forgive him. I don't think she knows herself. Besides…" I trail off.
"Besides?" prompts Ken, rubbing my arm in encouragement.
"Besides," I begin, then hesitate. I hate talking about this. "Besides, when I slept with that guy in Mexico despite still being with Eric… look, I could blame it on the surroundings or on the alcohol or on the fact that Eric and I weren't that serious anyway, but the cold hard truth is that I did it because I wanted out of the relationship and was too afraid to tell him. So I did something so awful and hurtful that I knew he'd have no choice but to end it."
Several seconds pass in silence and I know for a fact that Ken doesn't enjoy talking about it much more than I do. Finally, he asks, "And you think Jerry did it because he wants out of the relationship as well?"
"I don't know. I really don't know him all that well. I'm just thinking –" I pause, marshalling my thoughts. "I'm just thinking that if it's the case, it doesn't matter what Nan thinks, does it?" Just like it didn't matter what Eric thought either. I made that choice for both of us.
"No, probably not," agrees Ken with a sigh.
We lapse into silence for a moment, his fingers absent-mindedly drawing circles on my arm. Suddenly, the movement stops and he remarks, "Tell your parents to contact Tony's colleague again. This is exactly the kind of story that the press loves. I imagine they could do with a friendly reminder that Nan and Jerry are private individuals and their lives are none of anyone's business."
"Good idea." I hate that this is necessary, but I know enough to recognise it as a sensible suggestion. The last thing Nan needs is to have this splashed all over the yellow press.
Ken nods, his fingers resuming their slow movements. I cuddle closer to him, leaning my head against his shoulder. The room is silent, except for the ticking of the old grandfather clock. I wonder what time it is?
"We should probably go to bed," I observe.
"We should," acknowledges Ken.
But neither of us moves.
Instead, the minutes slowly continue ticking by and I feel myself starting to doze off. It's only when Ken leans down to kiss the top of my head that I startle awake again.
"Promise me something?" he asks, face pressed into my hair.
"Uh-huh," I agree, still drowsy.
I can hear him swallow, as his arm tightens around me. "Whenever you find yourself wanting out of this relationship… promise to tell me?"
And just like that, I'm wide-awake.
Thoughts rumble through my mind, half-formed questions and half-true reassurance muddling together to form a melee of things I can't seem to grasp at. I try to keep hold of them, to form them into anything resembling an answer, but they slip right past me.
In the end, the only thing I can do is curl myself as close to him as possible and murmur, "Promise."
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'I Will Survive' (written by Freddie Perren and Dino Fekaris, released by Gloria Gaynor in 1978).
To Mammu:
These two chapters do form a bit of a set, focusing on Rilla's and on Ken's friends, respectively, so they lend themselves to being looked at together, I think. We already knew that Rilla's friends were nice, and I hope to have shown that Ken's are, too :). As you said, he needs people in his life that he can rely on and relax around, despite his status, and these people provide that. They've been a part of his life for such a long time that he can trust them blindly and unreservedly. And yes, Steve is absolutely still Mr Bingley-like! Also a bit like a puppy, don't you think? ;)
I think at this point, Owen and Ken's interaction is mostly professional. They work well as a "king and his successor"-team and their relationship is polite and respectful, but they aren't emotionally close and Ken wouldn't confide in his father or call him just to chat. That was why, when he saw Ken's number pop up, Owen assumed there was a reason for him to call and obviously, there that reason could easily have been a bad one. So, that's where their relationship currently stands - but it won't always. We'll see them working on it before long.
To JoAnna:
I think these particular people always were nice and likeable. Rilla actually met them at the Engagement Party of Doom, but by the time she was introduced to them after dinner, she was unable to actually give them attention, so they didn't really register with her. They were also among the people Ken actually wanted her to meet before Vera and her Harpies happened, so he wasn't so very foolish in bringing her there. He just didn't appreciate the impact someone like Vera could have long before he would have the chance to introduce Rilla to his real friends. But as you said, if she had ignored Vera and focused on the other people present, the party might not have been so awful at all - and she would have seen sooner that not all genteel people in Ken's circle are horrible by default. No-one's fault (except Vera's), but it was really all circumstances working against them there.
It always has to get worse before it gets better! (Not necessarily between Ken and Owen, but there needs to be a catalyst for change and that isn't going to be something good.) That's what makes the story fun ;).
To AnneShirley:
You make me laugh ;). Have you and your phone since reconciled?
I'm not a great fan of nightclubs either (I much prefer dinner or drinks with friends to the dancing and the music), but if I had to go clubbing, something like cheese floor would be the preferable variant. I mean, it soundly gloriously bad, doesn't it?
Well caught on the Mark/Matt thing! Thank you! It was rectified promptly.
