The Nature of Cruelty (6 page)

He ignores my comment and asks, “How do you know all that stuff anyway, about gods and goddesses?”

I pat dry his hand. “That’s what I’m studying for my doctorate, ancient Greek mythology.”

He seems amused. “And what does one do with a qualification like that?”

“Lots of things. I want to lecture and write books on the subject. It’s going to take a long time, but I’ll get there eventually.”

Robert makes a face. “I’ve never been a fan of academics. I prefer to get out in the world and make something of myself.”

Slowly, I begin wrapping the bandage around his hand. “Well, I suppose we all want different things from life.”

“So what are you going to write your thesis on? Please tell me it’s about sex between the gods. I’d love to see you give a presentation on that.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Uh, why?”

“Oh, come on, it’d be hilarious. Someone as shy as you talking about lascivious gods and how they liked to get their jollies. I remember seeing this engraving in the British Museum of a guy sporting a massive erection. Half the stuff in there was downright pornographic.” He puts on a face as though offended, but I know too well that it’d take a lot more than a few rude engravings to offend Robert.

I burst into laughter. When I finally calm down, I say, “That was probably Priapus, the god of fertility. It’s where the word ‘priapism’ comes from. You know, when a man’s, um, thing...won’t go down.”

At this Robert lets out a delighted chuckle. “His thing? Have you ever seen a man’s thing in the flesh, Lana?”

I give him a warning stare, and he sobers up.

“I’ll admit that sex is a pretty big part of the myths,” I go on. “Those Greeks had some seriously dirty minds. But no, you’ll be disappointed to learn that’s not what I’m writing my thesis on. I actually haven’t settled on a subject yet. I’ve had several theories accepted by my supervisor, but I don’t know, none of them feel exactly...right. It’s frustrating, because I feel like what I truly want to write about is on the tip of my tongue, hovering just outside my reach. Sometimes I almost grasp it, but then I lose it again. You know what I mean?”

I realise I’ve been gesturing with my hands when I look back at Robert. His eyes take me in, as though fascinated. I always get a little overly animated when I start talking about my subject. I can’t help it; these things just excite me.

Robert clears his throat with a cough, then says, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

A silence ensues as I finish up with the bandage. I tie a little knot and cut off the end of the roll. Then I stand up and go to rinse my hands in the sink. Once I’m done I turn back to Robert, who’s still sitting on the edge of the tub, looking at me.

“I better get back downstairs and let you go, uh, grab a clean shirt. Gary left two big suitcases full of your stuff in the hall, by the way.”

Robert sighs. “Yeah, I saw. And thanks...for the bandage.”

I nod, giving him one last glance, and then leave the room. Well, that was different. My stomach rushes with shallow victory as I hear his words echo in my head:
You were always something, but you really did turn into a swan, didn’t you, Lana?

If I was always something, then why did he make me feel so ugly? I don’t get it.

But it does make me feel good to know that he sees me now, sees the pretty girl who evolved out of the awkward, shy, redheaded teenager. Unfortunately, the victory doesn’t feel quite as triumphant as I thought it would – aspirational disappointment at its finest. Now a brand-new feeling is stirring in my belly:
want
. I can’t deny that I like how he looks at me, and I want more of it. More of his soft words and heated stares.

God, for all I know this could be a ruse. Perhaps he’s only acting nice to break down my defences so that he can play the ultimate game. A game that will crush my heart. The idea makes my throat run dry.

I decide I should keep my distance from him, emotionally if not physically. Allowing Robert to get inside my head (and, God forbid, my affections) will only end in disaster. It always has. Over the years we had a few brief periods of getting along (mostly for Sasha’s sake), but he always broke them by either humiliating me in front of his friends or telling me to get lost once he grew tired of my company.

When I get back downstairs, everyone has gathered in the dining room, sitting around the ultra-modern glass and steel dinner table. I take a seat beside Sasha, who’s having an animated debate with Victor and Jacob about some Hollywood actor who was nominated for an Oscar last year but didn’t win. I sit quietly and listen while my eyes slowly drift to Kara.

She’s sitting between Gary and Alistair, laughing at something Sandra just said. About ten minutes later Robert comes into the room, carrying a glass of scotch. The conversation dies down, with everyone wondering if he’ll lash out at Kara again. He doesn’t, though. He simply sits down in the last empty seat, which happens to be right beside me.

I notice that he’s changed out of Sasha’s clothes and is now wearing a shirt and slacks. The top few buttons of the shirt are undone, revealing his collarbone. My eyes linger in that spot for a moment before I look away.

When it seems like Robert is going to behave himself, the tension in the room settles. He sips silently on his drink, occasionally shooting daggers at Kara or rolling his eyes whenever Gary says something.

After a while he leans in close to me so that his elbow brushes against my arm. “Are you on Facebook, Lana?” he asks, his voice low.

I turn to see him with his iPhone in his hand.

“Um, yeah, I am. Why?”

“I’m going to add you. What do you go by on there, Lana Sweeney or something else?”

“It’s Lana S. But there’s no need to add me. I’m hardly ever online.”

He taps my screen name into his phone and smirks. “That doesn’t matter. I just want to look through your pictures.”

I stare at him. “You want to look through my pictures?”

His smirk turns into a grin. “Yeah. Ah, there you are. Oh, look at your profile picture. It’s very...pure. I like it.”

I glance over his shoulder at my photo. My mum took it about a year ago on the beach. I’m looking into the distance, and my hair is blowing away from my face. The light of the sun makes my blue eyes stand out. It’s actually one of Sasha’s favourites; that’s why I picked it.

“Right, I’ve added you,” says Robert. “The next time you’re online you need to accept the friendship.”

“I will if you’ll tell me why you want to look at my pictures.”

He shoves his phone back in his pocket and stares at me. “You’ve got an...addictive sort of face. I hope you have lots of photos up because I plan on looking at you from all different angles.” On the surface his words are harmless, and I could be wrong, but the way he says them sounds kind of sexual.

“That’s really weird, Rob. In fact, I don’t like the idea of you looking at my photos at all. I’m not accepting that friend request.”

“Oh, come on, Lana, don’t be a spoilsport.”

“I’m not accepting it, Robert. Now leave it alone.”

We’re interrupted when Kara asks from across the table, “What are you two whispering about?”

“None of your fucking business, Boob Job,” Robert answers casually, knocking back the last of his scotch and slamming the glass down onto the table. I think he might be a bit drunk already.

“Aw, what’s wrong Rob? Are you pissed that you paid for them and now you’re not going to get to play with them anymore?” says Kara, her eyes narrowed.

Oh, my God! I can’t believe she just said that. Even I’m blushing, and the comment had nothing to do with me.

Robert snickers. “Yeah, because they’re so great. They’re as hard as two big rocks. And you wonder why I went with Olivia? She might have been ten years older than you, but at least she had proper breasts.”

Okay, I have no idea who Olivia is, but judging by the “ten years older” comment, I’m guessing she’s the married woman Sasha told me about.

“Rob, that was way out of line,” says Sasha, a look of disapproval on her face.

“What? She’s the one who started it. Getting all pissy just because I was talking to Lana.”

“Hah! I was not getting pissy. You can talk to your little pet all you want. I couldn’t care less,” Kara retorts before glancing at me. “You probably don’t know this, hon, but Robert has this freaky fucking obsession with you. You should stay far away from him. I just thought I’d warn you.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Robert says quietly to me, just as Sasha asks him, “What’s she talking about, Rob?”

“Nothing. She’s making it up because I cheated on her with Olivia.”

Well, I guess he and Kara hadn’t been having one of their off periods during the married woman debacle after all. Now I can definitely understand why she threw him out of their apartment. I can even empathise with her situation, since I’ve been hurt by Robert myself in the past. But what does she mean by “a freaky obsession”? I know Rob has always taken pleasure in hurting my feelings. Is that what she’s referring to?

Robert and Kara stare each other down for a long few moments. Robert’s gaze is hard and unwavering, and for a second it seems like Kara might burst into tears. She blinks, though, and her face becomes an expressionless mask.

“That’s it — we’re leaving. Come on, Gary,” she says, rising swiftly from her seat.

“Good riddance,” Robert mutters, just as the front door slams shut.

Four

S
hortly after Kara leaves I say my goodbyes to Sasha’s friends and go to bed. I’ve been feeling uncomfortable ever since Kara said all that stuff about Robert having an obsession with me. I’m not too keen on being anyone’s obsession, especially not someone as intense as Robert. Particularly since he’s so prone to hurting those around him.

Given the day I’ve had, it doesn’t take long for me to fall asleep. I wake up the next morning at eight, but Sasha and Robert are still sleeping. I decide to take the opportunity to get to know the area better, so I write out a shopping list, get dressed, and set off for the high street. I can’t contain my pathetic excitement when I come across a Waitrose, which is a fancy variety of grocery shop. I’m excited, mainly because we don’t have any Waitrose stores back home.

It’s really sunny out today, and I know that there’s a barbecue out the back of Sasha’s house, so I decide I’ll make homemade burgers for us later. We can spend a relaxing Sunday in her garden.

I walk the long way home, taking in the sights and getting a feel for the place. When I get back, I put the shopping away and go to my room to listen to some music and mess around on the Internet for a while. There’s still no sign of Sasha. As usual, I slept like the dead last night, so I don’t know how late everyone stayed in the house drinking.

Sticking in my earphones, I select a playlist on my iPod and turn up the volume. Then I pull my laptop onto the bed to check my emails. I also have a look on
The Daily Mail
website to see if there are any new articles up that Sasha wrote. I always read everything she writes, because I like to support her, but I also find it funny how different she comes across in her articles. It’s almost like she forces herself to put on a persona that fits the tone her readers will enjoy. Let’s just say it’s far bitchier and more judgmental than she’s ever been in real life.

After scrolling down I find the one she threw together yesterday about that new pop star, who goes by the name of Molly Willis. The headline in bold blue font reads:
New Girl on the Block Molly Spends a Wild Night in Camden Town
. It’s accompanied by a photo of said pop star flinging her cigarette butt at a guy with a camera. The outfit she’s wearing is nuts, but I kind of appreciate the craziness of it. It consists of a bright purple wig, cut-off denim shorts, fishnets, cowboy boots, and a luminous pink bra. Well, I suppose she’s making the most of the hot weather while it lasts.

After this I do a search for open-mic nights in London before writing down some of the dates and locations. Singing in front of an audience is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but up until now I’ve only ever had the nerve to do it in front of the mirror when the house is empty. I once signed up for an open-mic night back home, but when I got to the club I didn’t have the guts to see it through. Perhaps the anonymity of such a large city as London will be better for me and my timid little singing dream.

Once I’m finished with my usual rounds of the Internet, I remember Robert adding me on Facebook last night. I’ve never been on his page before, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Normally I see him make the odd comment on Sasha’s wall, but that’s about it.

When I log in, his friend request pops right up, and I don’t know what to do about it. I want to accept it so I can snoop on his page, but then that’ll have to go both ways and he’ll be able to snoop on mine. My life is nothing exciting. I mostly only talk to Sasha and my few friends from college. Feeling insecure that Robert will discover how dull my life is if I hit “accept,” I decide to play it safe and click on “decline.” I know I shouldn’t care about what he thinks of me, but I do. I can’t help it — I always have.

A couple of minutes go by as I comment on a few of my friends’ statuses. Then I hear a door opening at the end of the hall and hard footsteps on the wooden floor, becoming louder as they get closer to my room. My door flies open, and Robert steps inside.

I glance up from my laptop screen to take him in. His stylish haircut is dishevelled, but he’s dressed nicely in a shirt and expensive jeans. He drops down on the bed in front of me, scratching his hand across his day-old stubble.

“You declined my request,” he states, vaguely annoyed.

I pull out my earphones and laugh, then ask, “What were you doing, waiting eagerly online for me to accept it or something?”

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “No, I was online just now when I saw your cruel rejection.” He stops and puts his hand dramatically to his heart. “How could you, Lana?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’ll get over it.”