His eyes widen, as if I’ve slapped him. He looks like a little boy.
‘I’m sorry, but I saw the logo on the envelope and the strange name, and I…’
I push him, slamming him into the table. But I’m not being sexy this time and Nick knows it too.
‘Shut up,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t snoop!’
Has he read all of it? Does he know who you are, your release date?
‘Whoa,’ he says, watching me warily. ‘I didn’t read much, cool yourself. But hey, if there’s something you want to tell me…’
I shake my head. He can’t know anything about me, and nothing about you. I slam him into the table again. ‘You need to leave!’
‘Jeez, don’t go scary on me!’
His hands are up again, still holding the letter. He’s ruining everything. Thank God I never introduced him to Mum, never brought him any closer. I’ve backed him into the kitchen now, but that’s not the right direction: he has to go down the stairs behind me. My heart’s beating too fast, panic shooting up my veins.
‘Please, just leave. I mean it.’
He frowns and stands to his full height. ‘I don’t get you,’ he says, his tone of voice now serious. ‘One minute you’re all over me and the next…’
‘Leave.’
‘What’re you hiding?’
‘Nothing!’
He still has it. He won’t let it go. He’s crushing the envelope.
‘Give it back!’
I make a dive for the letter again.
‘What is wrong with you?’ he says, pulling his arm away as I try to grab at it.
The envelope tears.
I snatch a knife from the bench, by chance one of my sharpest. I hold it up in front of him, pleased by the sudden shock on his face.
‘What the hell?’
Now he’s listening.
Instantly, he drops the letter. With my left hand, I push the letter away from him. With my right, I grip the knife harder, moving it towards his cheek.
‘Don’t snoop in my stuff, ever!’
His mouth turns down, his expression nasty. It’s what all the men do, eventually, when they realise I’m not who they expected, not who they want.
‘What’s going on, Kate?’ His hard, angry eyes swivel to see the knife. ‘You’re some kind of crazy now?’
I stare at him. Can he see Gemma behind Kate? Can he see me like you did?
‘I don’t get you,’ he says again. ‘Do you even like me?’
When he turns back to me, there’s a pleading look in his eyes, which catches me for a second. I start to lower the knife, start to apologise, but can’t do more than mumble a beginning. I stare at his shirt, at his pale skin. His snow skin. English skin.
‘You know you never even said thank you,’ he hisses. ‘For what I did last night.’